Written in the Stars
by Syracuse too
Summary: A romance between Alistair and the one person who's always believed in him, but who may not be able to love him. Explores parts of Alistair's life we didn't see, both before and during in-game events. Rating may change for themes in later chapters.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

They were fighting again.

Alistair sat in the dim hall outside Arl Eamon's study , swinging his legs and listening to the raising pitch of the young arlessa's voice over that of her husband. She was only nineteen; it seemed almost impressive she'd mastered such condescension so early in life. Alistair shifted against the hard, unwelcoming stone of the bench and retreated back into his mind a little.

Isolde was barely eight years older than he, Alistair grumbled inwardly; hardly enough to justify the way she pushed him around. Not that he wasn't used to the treatment. Being the king's bastard never failed to earn him disdain or uncomfortable awe; generally, disdain. He fixed his eyes on a dying torch mounted to the opposite wall, willing his ears to hear the exchange.

"What makes the boy any different than a cotter's son? The servants will rebel if you keep showing him preference."

Eamon's voice was strong and even. "I was charged with the boy's care; it is a matter of fulfilling my word, my dear."

Isolde's voice grew shrill; it was what always happened before the arl was forced to placate her. Alistair hated the high, harsh tone. "Word to who? To his mother...to your lover?"

It was an old question, one that arose every time he was the subject of heated debate. Alistair was a little sad at being able to mouth the arl's response perfectly.

"Come my dear; you know there is no truth in that. It does no harm to have him here with us."

Something was slammed, or fell, causing Alistair to start in the empty hall."We _have_ a son, one to whom you should be devoting all your affections!"

Since the arlessa had given birth two weeks earlier, Alistair found himself the subject of their heated exchanges more than ever before. With Connor's arrival, Isolde was at last taking an inflexible stance.

An uncomfortable silence stretched out as he sat forgotten in the hall. It always went this way, with the arl trying to smooth things over; Eamon sounded wearied by it. "You are far too dramatic about all this; you worry yourself too much for a woman in your delicate state. It will come out right."

Alistair couldn't tell if she was even listening. "Something must change with the boy; I am not negotiable on it. He is ten years old; if you can find no other place, the Chantry will have him."

He made out a ragged sigh, a hesitant pause. "I will look into the matter."

Despite the regret in Eamon's voice, Alistair knew the arl would cave to his lady's demands; it was always so.

When Isolde walked out of the study a moment later, her blue eyes fixed him with their usual cold, appraising stare; he got the feeling she was always looking for something of the arl in him. Then, she moved past as though she hadn't noticed him at all. Thin arms wrapped absently around himself. _After years of it, I shouldn't hurt, _he mused forlornly _._ But he did; the sting in his young heart was a hard reminder of just how much.

Without waiting for anyone to come and collect him, Alistair returned to his small damp room under the stairs. Stuffing his few remaining presentable clothes into a potato sack, he stretched his thin frame out along the narrow bedroll against the wall. Wrapping trembling fingers around the amulet inside his shirt, Alistair pleaded fervently for Andraste to intervene on his behalf. He hated the tears that welled up in the corners of his eyes, but had long since learned to let them come, knowing the escape of sleep was never far behind.


	2. Alistair

Chapter I

_Alistair_

"He's a grown man. There is no reason for him to continue returning here to Redcliffe."

Seated on the bench in the hallway, Alistair stretched his legs and shifted, ignoring the arlessa's words. So much of his life had been spent on that bench; his backside must have left an imprint by now. So many moments of waiting anxiously for the arl to announce some new privation at the urging of the arlessa; the last time it had been sending him off to the Chantry for a decade. He wondered what she had in store this time.

At last there was a rustling as Eamon shifted or straightened. "Arl Tyaeri's daughter should arrive tomorrow." It was thrown out as an idle tidbit, as though they hadn't been arguing minutes before.

"I'm still unclear as to her purpose here. Is she simply another cast-off that we will be reforming?"

Alistair found his ears straining with eagerness at the turn in conversation. He'd heard idle snippets of gossip for days about the arrival of the mysterious newcomer; that she had six fingers, was ugly as a mabari, that she practiced blood magic in her small clothes.

He barely made out Eamon's chuckle through the heavy door. "My dear, you burden yourself far too much with all of this." There were footsteps, perhaps the arl moving to stand by his wife. "My cousin despairs greatly over her daughter; the girl will not relent, and her father has banished her from Badren for her refusal to give up these...self-imposed privations."

"Oh, so rather than have her parents be shamed by common behavior, we will have the pleasure."

"Lorin was a favorite of my sister Rowen; my cousin's heart is exceedingly broken over this fracturing of her family. It is a small request, easily granted. And need I remind you, Tyaeri Agnellis is a powerful ally of the crown; his strong ties to Orlais help ensure peace."

_Oh, she would chafe at that_. Alistair felt a little guilty for taking so much pleasure in the idea; Isolde was exceedingly proud of her Orlesian nationality. He studied the grooves in the stone floor, trying hard to repress a satisfied smile.

"What will we do with her? Is she an arl's daughter or a servant? I have very little interest in managing some rebellious girl."

"My understanding is that we are to give her a roof and encourage her toward her father's will. Beyond that, she will be left to her own devices."

"And we will have to endure whatever humiliation that brings..."

She was furious; he loved it.

Eamon chided her like a father. "Now, now. She is the daughter of an arl, so we can hardly command her; we must allow her to take this path and hope to be a silent influence."

Whoever this person was, Alistair liked her already simply for the annoyance she caused Isolde.

"Fine. Perhaps we should convert our home into an institution for other nobles' unmanageable children. Just see to it that she's kept away from Connor."

"I am certain you have nothing to fear, Isolde."

Alistair sensed by the Arlessa's tone that she wasn't willing to move forward. "If Alistair has concluded his studies at the chantry, then he needs to be settled somewhere, and begin a useful course of training. Quickly."

The door to the back stairs could be heard shutting a moment later, signaling she was gone. He was grateful not to endure her presence.

"Alistair. Come here, son." His aging guardian sat in a chair near the fire. The resignation was all over his weathered features as he patted a seat beside him. "You're no fool. You heard the arlessa's thoughts."

He fixed his eyes on the worn leather toes of his boots, nodding. "Lucky for her, I don't have any feelings or they might have been hurt."

Eamon sighed weightily, taking up the poker and jabbing half-heartedly at a charred log. "She makes a point; you are twenty now. You can't be coddled, and you'll have to learn to make your way in the world eventually. Most people don't know your father, and it won't do you any favors to go around making a fuss over it. Could make Redcliffe a small place for you."

Hurt and anger constricted his throat. He and the arl had gotten on well enough before the arlessa. They were never going to be father and son, he knew, but at least Eamon never made him feel ashamed. "Does this mean I have to go? Again?"

"No! No." At least the vehemence of his answer was a little comforting. "I think, though, that you should have a more...defined place. It will be better, easier. For everyone."

"Right; easier."

Eamon stood, looking down over him; it felt like the man was passing judgment. "We'll start thinking about continuing your martial training with Ser Garritt. And while you're visiting, we'll move you out to the stables, to the loft. I think attitudes will soften if you're out of the house."

It shouldn't hurt; he didn't want it to. He was twenty now, a man. He wouldn't break, let the arl see his weakness. Focusing harder on his boot, Alistair nodded. For the obedience he received a rough pat on the shoulder. "Good. You settle in tonight, and we'll get your things moved into the loft tomorrow...get everything arranged before you begin training."

No wasting time; he was moved aside, just like that. He didn't want to wait for any more bad news; standing, he stalked to the door without another word to the arl.

There was nothing to greet him in the loft except old leaf litter and spider webs. The stable master had a small cottage of his own as of the last fall, and everything had been moved out. There were so many holes in the boards that he wondered if that's where the wood for the stable master's new home had come from.

After leaving Eamon, Alistair went to his room only to find the pillows and blankets were gone. The maid told him the arlessa was having them washed; he hadn't been fooled. Retaliation was her specialty.

The early spring days might be warm, but the nights seemed to have missed the message. Damp, chill air came in through every chink in the boards, and across the sill where the tiny window no longer met it's frame. He'd prowled around the estate until his mind and body were too exhausted to care about the temperature, then returned to his new home. Sitting with his back leaned into the least drafty corner, he wrapped up tight in his cloak, leaving just enough room to move an arm. Reaching into his shirt, his thumb rubbed across the silver-glass amulet with the little symbol of Andraste fused to it. He thought about his mother, and knowing he was alone, let the tears slide down his cheeks.


	3. Thera

It wasn't hard to rouse the next morning. The cold had left him fitful and aching; the nightmares made it hard to sleep deeply for any length of time. When the gentle voice drifted to his ears, it was in such stark contrast to his dreams that at first he thought it must be his imagination. Opening aching eyes, he stared at the window, listening. When it came again, he was almost certain it was real.

Standing, he stretched cramping muscles a bit before mounting the ladder. He almost fell twice, uncoordinated from lack of sleep. Glancing around as he boots met earth, he saw nothing. He almost laughed at the tricks his mind could play in his loneliest moments.

Grabbing a rung, he was about to climb back up when he heard someone quietly clicking their tongue. Leaning back, he looked down the length of stalls. Finally he saw her, standing on the bottom rail of a stall gate, leaned in feeding something to the horse. "Look how beautiful you are; and so friendly!"

She was pale like the women he'd seen from Orlais, and where the sun caught in her hair it set dark flames aglow in each strand. Her clothes were simple but not poor, voice warm and soothing; she must be Tyaeri's troublesome daughter. He'd expected her to be older, his own age maybe, but she looked no more than seventeen. She didn't seem rebellious or temperamental; just the opposite, she seemed...comforting. He was a little disappointed that she did not, in fact seem to have horns despite strong assurances from the women in the kitchen.

He took a step closer, then another, wanting to speak but feeling oddly tongue-tied. His cloak had other plans, snagging on a tack in the wall, sending him stumbling as the wool pulled free. "Damn!" _Super_, he groaned. _Handled with my usual depth of brilliance_.

She jumped down from the gate, and Alistair could see he'd startled her; he felt like a fantastic idiot. Her bright smile, however, put him a little at ease. It was easy to see now that she was short, with a surprisingly fit figure, for a noble girl. Her large, pretty eyes took in everything as she glanced around. "These animals are wonderful. Are you the stable master?" 'Stable master' had been said without any condescension; Alistair wasn't sure he was awake.

How to answer her question, though; who was he? He hated when people asked that. "I am, uh, the arl! Yes. I'm the arl." To lend credence, he made a little bow for her.

"_Oh_." Her face creased into a frown. "Then I'm sad to inform you that you owe me money; a _great_ deal of money. You can either pay me now, or we shall have to duel in front of the guildhall. To the death." Was she teasing him, or a lunatic?Her laughter wasn't exactly helping him decide the question. When she smiled though, he felt her warmth.

"I'm Thera, from Badren. Did you hear I was coming? My mother is sure I have a _reputation_."

He didn't know how to answer; every response seemed offensive..._Why yes, I heard about you! Wow, you don't look at all like a maleficar. _Alistair couldn't bring himself to repeat the gossip, and he really didn't want to lie even if her emphasis of the word 'reputation' made him a little nervous. Finally Alistair settled on the most diplomatic reply he could conjure. "I think it might have been mentioned. Once."

He felt great satisfaction at managing so smoothly. She nodded slowly, her smile knowing; he was relieved that she didn't call him on the fib.

They stood awkwardly, for minutes; she looked on expectantly as his confusion grew. What was she waiting for; what should he say? He wasn't used to anyone paying him so much attention. Finally, to his relief, she made the first move. "Did you say which arling was yours? I missed it."

"Alistair." Much less smooth this time, he groaned inwardly.

Her face screwed up, and she studied the ceiling. "Nope; I never heard of that one. Must be to the south."

She made him laugh, rather than feel stupid; it was a nice change from the chantry. "No, my name. Is Alistair.. Alistair is my name. I'm the..._ward..._ of Arl Eamon." Perhaps the Maker would strike him now and grant a merciful end.

"Oh." She looked disappointed. "I probably won't see you much, then. At the castle."

He searched their surroundings pointedly, lifting his hands. "You're sort of in _my_ castle right now, so...feel free to stop in all the time! Though, I'm usually at the chantry, so..." He shrugged, uncertain how to finish.

She followed his eyes around the stable, then whistled softly. "You must be in nearly as much trouble as I am."

Swaying from exhaustion and maybe some disbelief, he rested a hand on the wall to steady himself. She must have noticed the small movement; her feathery brows furrowed and she started forward. "Did you sleep out here, last night?"

He felt a little giddy. "No. I definitely _didn't_ sleep."

"It was freezing; you'll catch your death!" She was grabbing him by the hand before he had time to realize, dragging him farther down to an empty stall. Taking off her cloak, she tossed it atop the clean straw. Lifting the wide, woven strap from one shoulder, she tossed her large satchel in after it. "Try to rest. I'm going to find you some blankets. And something hot." He couldn't do anything but stare at the makeshift bed. He was dreaming; he had to be.

Thera jerked a finger toward the cloak. "Lay down!"

She was bossy; it was nice. He settled onto her cloak, adjusting the supple leather bag under his head; it was soft and must have been full of her clothes. When he was situated, she arranged his own cloak to cover as much as possible.

Without a word Alistair found he was alone, bewildered and disbelieving as her footsteps echoed through the stable. Her cloak smelled like smoke and fine soap; the sun and straw warmed the chill from his flesh. With a quick thanks to the Maker, Alistair let exhaustion take its course.

When his eyes opened again, the sun through the window was shining down from its highest point. Some savory smell wafted in the air, overriding the scent of horse. Raising his head to find the source, Alistair discovered he was now covered by a blanket. Clean and no holes; it was a novelty. He wasn't sure he owned anything save his armor that didn't have holes or patches. Slowly, he sat up.

She was there, sitting against the narrow wall next the stall door, eyes searching him. "Feeling better? You look better." She smiled approvingly.

He was alert enough now to see her eyes were gray, and that they changed in hue constantly as he watched. Something about the color made them unsettling, gave him the feeling she could see more than most people.

"You don't say much."

He was ashamed at being so boorish. "I guess I'm just not used to people listening to me."

She clucked her tongue sympathetically, unfolding a clean rag beside her and holding up a small loaf. "I brought you some soup, and hot bread. Well, it _was_ hot bread, but you needed rest. It's fresh, though." She ladled the hot broth from a small crock nestled in the straw, blowing it gently before passing it to his eager fingers. It smelled mouthwatering, buttery with delicious spices. She passed over the bread, resting it on his leg.

His eyes were still fixed to the bowl. "Did you get this from the kitchens here?"

She made an awful face. "I _made_ it in the kitchen; everything already prepared smelled sort of..._gray_." Thera grimaced, giving a slight shudder of revulsion.

Alistair felt so confused; why had she gone to all the trouble? Noble girls were not inherently altruistic, or domestic. It wasn't real; that was it! He was lost in the Fade somewhere. "You made this...for me?"

Thera hugged her knees a little more tightly, and he saw the merest hint of her back straightening proudly. "You can't lay out in the cold all the time. Someone is coming from the village to build a proper fireplace."

_Aha!_ There was the catch; she was _crazy_. "You can't put a fireplace in a stable!"

She arched one eyebrow. "You can't put a boy in there, either."

"I...have no answer to that." He scratched his head, a little bemused. It wasn't as though he hadn't felt the same way a hundred times. It did sort of chafe to be called a boy, though; she was just a girl herself.

Then he looked down at the soup, and the blankets, remembering to be grateful. "How did you manage all this?"

There was no artifice or haughty air to her words. "I'm the daughter of an arl, so I usually get what I ask for."

"Right. Good point." But _why_ had she asked? He took a bite of the soup; it was incredible. "Thank you. Really."

Looking satisfied that he was happy, she smiled and nodded. Shifting to her hands and knees, Thera crawled beside him, reaching behind his back and tugging at her bag. He watched her rifle through it as he ate; she set aside two cream colored bundles and closed the flap. "Here are some socks; I saw yours had holes. These are a little too big for me."

The heavy wool felt as good as gold to his fingers as he picked up a pair. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had socks or small clothes in decent condition; life at the chantry left little time for mending, and he certainly received little new at home. "I don't know how to thank you. You've done so much..."

Her delicate features pulled up into a bright smile. "You could show me Redcliffe tomorrow; I haven't been here since I was a girl."

"Aren't you still a girl? Not that you're not a _girl..._I meant..." It had sounded so unoffensive in his head.

Her brow arched. "Is this why you're sleeping out here?" She was an awfully quick wit, he noted painfully.

"Won't they miss you, at the castle?" Alistair didn't remember the arlessa's words until the question was already asked.

She shrugged gently, looking blithely unconcerned. "We're the two least important people in Fereldan, I think."

"Good point." Suddenly though, he wasn't feeling so unimportant anymore.


	4. Fast Friends

Alistair waited with excitement for her appearance the next morning, musing at the difference only one day had made. He'd woken up warm, rested and...happy. _Suspicious too_, he thought sadly. The only time people were nice to him was when they found out who his father was, although it was just as likely that the information would work against him. Thera didn't seem like the sort to care either way; it was immensely refreshing.

They'd been all around the city by mid afternoon; Alistair tried to point out things no one else would think of...the place where he'd thrown up after too many leppin berries, the cheese shop, and the most advantageous overhang for spitting.

Through it all he had a captive audience; it wasn't till the end of the tour he realized sheepishly that he'd talked almost non-stop, giving Thera no time to answer. She hadn't seemed bothered, though; her pert nose wrinkled with every approving smile, and her eyes darted with excitement to take in each new attraction.

"I'm so sorry; you've hardly had a breath from me to get a word in." He wished he could tell her that he liked the sound of her voice.

Her head shook emphatically. "You're my host; you're really doing a great job."

He was blushing; the burning in his face told him he must be scarlet. Suddenly his feet grew incredibly fascinating.

"What's past the tower over there?"

He glanced to where she was pointing. "That's the east gate to the village; beyond are the Orchards. That really means farms, don't ask me why. Lake Calenhad is also that way."

She looked overhead, seemed to judge the position of the sun. "Sounds exciting." Without a word her hand wrapped around his, giving a firm tug. It was the first genuine human contact he could recall; he felt the warmth of her fingers all the way to his heart.

When they were outside the city walls and across the bridge, she lead them away from the dusty line of the road, off into the swaying field grass. At the bottom of the hill was a lazy creek; Alistair cleared it with an easy jump, having years of practice. He offered his hand to help her across, but it earned a hearty laugh and a head shake. "I said I haven't been here in years; I didn't say I've never jumped the creek." She wasn't like many people in Redcliffe, and certainly unlike anyone from the chantry; they were friends, he felt it already.

To his consternation Thera hitched up her skirts, which were not at all like those of the ladies in Redcliffe or Denerim. Their dresses were narrow, severe, accented with leather and metal. Thera's were flowing, soft fabrics in simple green and gray. _Her petticoat is gray_, he corrected with a blush as two stockinged knees came in to view. With a graceful lunge she cleared the water, slipped on the mud, and corrected herself. "Whew!" She made a little mocking bow, and he joined in by clapping.

"Thank you!" She held a hand aloft, like one of the fighters in the lists.

Alistair glanced at their surroundings, wondering what would be of the most interest to his new companion. "And now?"

Rolling her eyes, she grabbed a fistful of her skirts. "Let's go!"

She was off through the grass, running quickly down the slope before he could find his feet. "Wait!" She was deceptively fast for being so petite.

If she heard his call, it didn't show; she didn't stop running till reaching the small grassy dunes that made up part of the lake shore. By then, he'd covered enough distance to be almost on her heels; Alistair was pleased martial training was proving good for something. When he reached the spot where she was waiting, he found her half doubled over, panting and smiling.

"Why didn't you wait?"

She cocked her head, smile cryptic. "You didn't need me to." Circling the dune, she settled on the side sloping toward the lake, facing the castle. Laying back on the matted grass, she rested her feet on a felled tree limb and appeared immediately at ease. He stood over her for a minute, nervously rubbing a thumb across his palm. Should he sit? Was he supposed to lay beside her? At the chantry he'd always been harshly discouraged from laying down in the presence of girls, or laying down with girls, and a lot of other combinations of the two. Finally, she patted the spot next to her. "I don't bite, you have my word. Unless it's Tuesday."

"As a matter of fact..."

"Fine, fine! I won't bite, even if it _is_ Tuesday."

"Really? Sad." He flopped down on the ground beside her, eyes struggling to take in the vast blue canopy overhead. Her finger appeared at the edge of his vision, held aloft, making a swirling motion. "What do you think is up there? Is it just blue, all the way to the stars?"

"You want to know what I think about the sky?" He wished the words sounded more like a jest.

Her head rolled toward him, face making a teasing scowl. "Yes. _You_. The Arl of Alistair. "

"Ah, nice. Glad that's so vivid in your mind." He adjusted his back, folding hands behind his head, and considered her question.

"I'm not certain really. Some believe the Maker resides overhead; the Tevinter see the Black City there. Some elvish think the sun and moon are founders of old. I suppose I've never given it much thought beyond appreciating a starry night."

"There _must_ be something more up there, with the stars. What _are_ the stars? Sometimes it's too much to think about." Alistair was impressed that she thought about it at all. He was trying to work up the courage to say so when she spoke again.

"Alistair, why were you out there, in the stables?" She wasn't looking at him now, but he thought her voice sounded sad.

He shrugged even though she couldn't see it. "I'm just a ward; I probably should have been living outside the castle from the start; the arlessa has made sure it's not a home to me for sometime now. Anyway, I spent the last ten years at the chantry, training. I've only just come back to Redcliffe."

"Are you truly the arl's bastard?" He was impressed that she asked the question without judgment or obnoxious curiosity. Not that he wasn't adept at fielding both; they were how he'd first learned to use sarcasm as a defense. Without weighing the consequences, he responded to her query.

"The king's actually, not that it's common knowledge. But the truth doesn't get in the way of a juicy story with _some_ people." Had he really just blurted that out to her? She asked so persuasively that he hadn't thought to hesitate. Somehow, it felt alright trusting her with his unfortunate parentage.

"The cook told me Isolde believes otherwise. How long have you lived with Eamon?"

So, she'd been checking up on him. It wasn't as irritating as he'd expected, considering how much he desired anonymity. "Since almost the moment I was born. Things were easier, before he married."

"Do you have anyone? Any family?"

"The arl is as close as I get."

"Besides your father and half-brother..."

It was a tense subject Alistair found he wasn't quite ready to broach. "I don't know either one of them; we share nothing more than an unfortunate circumstance. I'd be happier to forget about it. And for everyone else to do the same."

She said nothing for a while, but he could practically hear the cogs turning in her brain. "What will happen to you?"

The note of concern in her voice was comforting. "I suppose I'll be trained by Ser Garritt, one of Eamon's knights, and then join the king's army. I wouldn't really mind it, being a soldier."

"I think you were meant for more than that."

She was a little..._creepy_ in her honesty sometimes. "I hope not; I'm not sure I could handle the excitement."

Thera didn't react to his jest; it left him uneasy. Maybe he'd been too harsh in his response about the king. There was something he'd been dying to ask her all day; hopefully her silence didn't mean he'd lost his chance. Alistair struggled to keep shaking nerves from showing in his voice. "Why did you do it?".

She turned her head to look at him again, the green scrub-grass framing her auburn locks. "Hmm?"

"Why did you do...what you did yesterday? For me, I mean."

Her hand came to rest on his forearm. "Because you needed it. People, on the inside, are a lot like plants. We need care and tending, warmth, to survive; you don't have that."

His lungs felt like the breath had been knocked out. At the chantry they talked all the time about the lifelong struggle to be truly good; Thera was the first real example he'd ever seen of someone who practiced it.

"I heard Eamon talking about you a few days ago; about being sent away from home for living...simply. At least, I assume that's what he meant."

"That's a nice way of putting it." She turned her head away, looking across the fields so that he couldn't see her face.

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have blurted it out." Sometimes talking felt like an exercise in tactlessness.

"Don't apologize; it's true. And of course, you're curious about why."

"No. Yes. Well...yes, I am really." In fact, he was dying to know. She chuckled and turned her face back to his. "If you'd said no, I would have known you were lying."

"I want to know about you, but I'm not terribly eager to seem like a gossipy maid about it." _But I'm willing to come pretty close, _he decided_. _

Her eyes were searching his face, betraying nothing. "First tell me we what you've heard. There must have been some gossip."

"Really? How sad; no one told me." He tried to fake wounded frown.

"Unfortunate." She teased back.

" You might not believe this, but I am rather unpopular."

"It's part of your charm, I think."

He tried to jest, concealing how abashed he felt at her words. "As flattered as I am that you realize it, I get the feeling you're not answering my question."

"Perceptive, too."

She was so witty...and exasperating. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Her smile looked exactly the way he imagined those of the good Fade spirits; radiant and serene. And, well, a little annoying.

He sighed heavily, trying to sound reluctant. "Since you won't tell, I guess I'll just have to make up my own stories. Spread them around to the villagers and the chantry. That will be fun."

"You wouldn't do that..." He enjoyed the hesitance and uncertainty in her words.

"You know what word people love to hear in gossip? _A-pos-tate_. They love it."

Her sigh was deep and long. "I like you Alistair, but you don't make it easy."

"Perfect! Will you tell me now?" He could feel her wavering. She exhaled again, then sat up; he could tell he'd won.

"My mother is a cousin to Eamon; you probably already know that." Her arms wrapped around her knees. "I told you I haven't been here since I was little, but that's not true. My father brought us here, my brother and I, over three years ago now. We were escorted by a number of his men, including Ser Varic. You might know him; he's in Redcliffe from time to time. Ser Varic brought his son Aldan as an outrider. I knew I loved him the moment I saw him."

Alistar realized he was blushing again; _how novel_. He'd never thought he was in love with anyone. Sometimes he wondered what a girl looked like in her small clothes, but they told him at the chantry those thoughts got you divine punishment. Thera being in love elevated her to a sort of legendary status in his eyes.

"I was fourteen, and my father didn't think my feelings were real. Or that Aldan was a good suitor, though he didn't say that till later. He was wrong though; I knew my heart. For two years Aldan courted me in secret, but a servant found our letters. Of course they went straight to my father."

"He was furious and demanded that it stop. I told him we were going to marry, and he threatened to send me to the sisters in the cloister. Not really a threat, I guess, since he fully intended to follow through. When I met Aldan in the courtyard that night, I was so...irrational. I told him what my father had planned; he said we could run away, live somewhere in _secret_."

Her disappointment at the idea was apparent. "I take it that wasn't what you wanted."

She shook her head vehemently, using a sleeve to dry her eyes. "I was selfish. I wanted Aldan to stand up to my father, tell him we were in love and going to get married, live together. Looking back, I didn't know what that meant; I guess I didn't care."

Propping elbows on her knees, she let her chin rest on the bridge her arms created. She was no longer trying to hide her tears; it pulled at his heart. "Running off in the night seemed so cowardly, and our love was something to be proud of. I didn't see his wisdom; his plan just made me angry."

"But you went; isn't that why you're here?"

She was quiet for a long time; he began to wonder if he should repeat the question. When she did speak, her voice was small.

"Aldan challenged my father to a duel. He was eighteen, and within his rights. It was to please me, really. And he'd become exceedingly skilled by training with Ser Varic; considering my father's age, it probably seemed like a sure victory."

"And your father could save face a little, if he lost and you left." The sisters in the chantry gossiped about such stories all the time.

"I just had a terrible feeling; I begged Aldan not to do it, but he kept insisting he'd prove himself to me and my father. I tried begging my father, but said he was going through with it to teach Aldan a lesson."

She sat up straight, wrapping arms around her middle; he didn't feel certain she knew where she was, staring at the lake without seeing. "He didn't mean to hurt Aldan, I know that now. But his _pride_...it would never have happened without such pride."

His stomach knotted at the ominous turn in her story. "Your father wounded him in the duel?"

She spoke softly, raggedly. "My father _killed_ him in the duel. He swung suddenly, catching Aldan off guard and striking him across the head. Aldan never woke; he died that night."

She began to sob. Alistair felt terrified, unsure how to help. Finally he did what he wished someone could do for him when he shed tears, wrapping arms around her. It was impossible not to shed tears of his own at her tale.

She lay against his side until the sun was low over the lake; it felt good to be so close to someone, letting the lazy breeze move over them. He regretted it when she finally pulled away. "It's been more than a year, but it hasn't become any easier. Thank you for listening." She beamed with gratitude. How could she smile at him, or anyone else after such loss?

He puzzled over something as her arms went around his neck in a quick hug. "That was a year ago; why are you just now come to Eamon's estate?"

She gestured toward her clothes. "For this. After my father killed Aldan, I realized that my pride had been to blame, too. If I'd been content, grateful, less arrogant...we would be together now. So I took a vow, sort of like the sisters."

"But...you can't join the chantry as a noble without your father's say, not until eighteen."

"I think I should be repentant without anyone reminding me; that seems too easy. Funny, isn't it, that the place my father was willing to send me at first eventually became so detestable to him and appealing to me? He _hated_ being reminded of his mistake, I think."

"So...you're not going to join the Chantry?"

"No. I don't think they truly spread the Maker's teachings. Insisting others beg the Maker for forgiveness is useless if we don't show contrition for our own actions."

"I'm not particularly devoted, so I guess the Chantry's shortcomings don't bother me."

She looked very surprised. "You took the oath? Why are you here at the castle?"

"I was schooled there, and started training, but I haven't begun my disciplines or taken any vows. And I don't intend to. But once a year the brothers and sisters go on pilgrimage, and the boarders can go home. Hopefully this is the end of it for me; I don't want to go back." He'd never meant words so sincerely in his life.

"Wouldn't you be better off staying at the chantry...considering?" He understood; she was letting the silent implication about the arlessa hang between them.

"I would have a room, but at night the quiet already drives me _mad_. I don't think I could stay in an empty chantry day and night for weeks." He wanted to tell her about the screaming, waking up so alone that he wasn't sure he existed anymore; she might think he was childish.

"We should start back; it will be dark by the time we reach the gate. You must be hungry, and I've kept you out so long." He didn't feel as apologetic as he was letting her think; the moment they were sharing might never be repeated and he wanted to preserve it.

She stood, dusting dry grass from her skirt. When she smiled down at him and reached out a hand, his heart raced. Their fingers laced together with soft pressure; what he was feeling seemed like one of those things the chantry frowned on. He squeezed a little harder, and she smiled.

To break the silence as they walked, he began describing objects he saw around them. It was fun, but she guessed them all right away. Either he was terribly obvious or she was incredibly quick; the latter, Alistair decided, made him less uncomfortable.

They were almost back to the creek when two men materialized from a shadowy copse of trees. Alistair groaned, recognizing their silhouettes immediately."Lerin and Rem. Come on, we can cross back toward the lake."

Her fingers tightened around his. "This way is fine; come on."

She obviously wasn't grasping the seriousness of their situation. "These two have been accomplished footpads since I was twelve years old; crossing them has bad results. At least if you're attached to living." She nodded with understanding, but kept on down the slope, undeterred.

Was she trying to get him killed, or just thick? They were too close now to his tormentors to say more.

Lerin's yellowed grin didn't reach his eyes, as he rested fists on his flabby hips. "Well look! Good ol' Prince Nobody. And he's got himself a village girl. Slumming just like his father." _Oh_, Alistair thought morosely, _the upside of being a Therin bastard_.

Their laughter was like growling dogs; Alistair knew better than to assume there was any real mirth to it. He could manage them, but tendrils of fear spread through his chest at their interest in Thera.

Beside him, Thera pressed herself close. She must be terrified; he leaned closer, fearing to take his eyes off their companions. Her voice told a completely different story, however; low, insistent and not the least bit concerned. "Stand up for yourself, Alistair. "

"Oh, she has ideas of her own, do she? Be fun to put her in her place...a few times." Rem's skeletal frame wavered from drunkenness, eying Thera up and down in a way that left Alistair sickened.

Leaning over, he whispered into her ear. "He just wants a few copper for liquor, really. We've played this game since I was a child." With any luck, Lerin would take the coin and leave.

Her arms crossed defiantly, and she looked past him. "Stand _up_ for your self."

"Right. Let me just cast a spell and we'll be on our way." She obviously was over-estimating what he'd learned at the chantry.

"You're the king's son, Alistair."

"I'm the son of nobody...nobody important." His parentage had never served him well in the past. If anything, it only fueled the abuse of people like Lerin and Rem.

She was fishing into the deep pocket of her skirt. "_I_ think you're important."

His stomach made a flip. "Aww. I bet you say that to all the illegitimate boys."

Flushing cheeks belied her serene expression as she held up a well-used slingshot. "Only if I _really_ like them."

"What's all this? Holdin' hands? That's good; me and Rem likes to watch." Lerin was sauntering closer with Rem hanging back nervously, goading him on.

Thera held up both her hands expectantly; Alistair saw plainly that she had confidence in him. That was all he needed, along with a healthy belief in the Maker's intervention on his behalf.

Grabbing the small weapon, he scooped the heavy stones from her palm and rounded on Lerin. Two rocks were away with a crack before the man had time to register that Alistair was armed. The large man doubled over with a shriek, grabbing at his forehead with meaty paws.

Alistair tossed the slingshot aside; charging forward as if propelled by unseen forces, he planted a boot into the softness of his foe's ample stomach. Lerin's breath came out in a foul smelling exhalation, but his massive frame wasn't toppled. Instead, his balled fist flew forward; Alistair anticipated the swing, but the tearing sensation in his bottom lip said he'd moved too slowly. He hooked an arm instinctively in response, fist making a woody thud against Lerin's cheek and jaw; the bandit crumpled like wet canvas, writhing on the grass.

All four knuckles cried out, burning, but Alistair couldn't stop; his body seemed in control. He rounded in a fluid motion, letting a leg connect squarely with Rem's left side. Howling, the wiry man grabbed at his arm where Alistair's boot had struck, and he tumbled to the ground screaming. Approaching slowly, Alistair watched the person who had been the source of so much torment writhing helplessly at his feet, elbow bent unnaturally. What should he do? It was tempting to deliver another blow now that Rem was down. Glancing back, he saw Thera watching him carefully. He wanted her to respect him; he wanted to respect himself.

Bending over Rem's prone form, Alistair shoved a hand into the man's shirt collar as he whimpered and tried to scoot away. Finding the leather thong, he tugged it out, yanking the pouch free of Rem's neck. "Since none of this actually belongs to you, I'll won't feel guilty relieving you of it." He tossed and caught the small bag of coins in his palm. The sense of triumph was almost unfathomable. Unconsciously he flexed an arm. Maybe the chantry had taught him a few things, after all.

Scooping at the tangled slingshot, his hand sent searing pains into his wrist as he tried to curl fingers around the handle. Tomorrow he was sure his injuries would severely diminish his gratification. He rejoined Thera, standing now on the opposite side of the clearing near the creek. Her fingertips came to his lip, evaluating the wound. He winced involuntarily. "Does it hurt a great deal?"

"What? Oh, that. I hardly noticed. Am I injured? _Wow_." He liked the way she rolled her eyes when she was exasperated.

. "When we get back to the castle, I'll fetch you some herbs from my bag. Girls will like you more; that should make you feel better for now."

In fact, it made him feel great. His grin was rewarded with a tearing pain, then another as he frowned at her laughter.

"You are a bad person."

At least she had the decency to look a little remorseful.

This time it was he who joined their hands, switching sides so his injured knuckles were out of the way. The sense of achievement was incredible; he felt prepared to face anything, thanks to her.

She let him help her across the creek this time; catching her hand as she landed on the opposite bank was worth the searing pain that shot up the back of his wounded hand. When they were at the top of the road, below the gate, she turned and blocked his path. Night had fallen while they dallied with their attackers. It was hard to see Thera's eyes as she spoke; he sorely wished he could.

"You're a _person_, Alistair...no matter who your father is."

It was such a novel idea that he was speechless the rest of way back to town. Was it really possible to be more than a cast-off bastard, when that was all anyone around him seemed to expect? In the end, it didn't matter; just having someone think so was enough.


	5. Healing Wounds

"Ow! It feels..._oww_!" His lip felt enormous. Alistair was so distracted by the throbbing in his face that he hardly noticed as they made their way through the town.

"Stop fiddling with it or it's going to suppurate and fall off!"

It was the first time she'd sounded genuinely cross; it gave him pause for a moment. "It won't really. Will it?"

"Ask me that when they're calling you Old Alistair One-lip. If you can."

He balled his hands into fists at his side, resisting any further urge to examine his wounds.

Thera stopped him with an imploring glance as they passed the small poulterer's shop near the town square. "Even if we haven't missed the evening meal, we'll be forced to eat separately; let's get something we can roast in the yard. Wait here."

The moment her back was turned Alistair raised a hand to his lip, then thought better. If Thera caught him at it, she'd snap again. _Because she likes you, _he realized happily_. _The idea seemed so far fetched, that in a matter of two days he could have grown so close to someone. Any friend would be a gift of the Maker; he'd just been especially blessed. Watching Thera through the narrow shop window, Alistair decided she was amazing; it must hurt so much inside, feel so lonely without her love. It made him appreciate the consideration she was showing him even more.

The shop was closing, and Thera was back in a matter of minutes with a small cloth sack and a satisfied smile. Suddenly he felt a little shy.

"We should have something good to drink; it'll also take your mind off your hand and lip."

"No Orlesian wine handy in these parts right now. Probably trade at the elven refugee camp for something Dalish. It's nothing like the alienage in Denerim, but we might find a bottle."

She nodded, looking satisfied. "Lead the way!"

There were few people milling about the gates marking the alley to the camp; it was nearing curfew and the entrance was fairly deserted. Thera showed her true colors though, immediately making friends with an aging woodcarver by the corner of a nearby building. Looking on, Alistair felt a small measure of jealousy at the easy way in which Thera made conversation.

After some smiling and nodding with Thera, the old man called over a young woman with two small children in tow. Thera indicated her pocket several times, and at last a bottle was produced from a satchel by the wall.

In exchange, Thera handed off some coins and what looked like rough stems; an herb perhaps. The little Dalish girl came forward, shyly touching Thera's skirts; her brother hung back uncertainly. Alistair's heart twisted at the child's lack of shoes and frail body; a poor elven child's lot was infinitely worse than that of a human. Prejudice and mistrust practically ensured that their situation could never bee improved.

Though she already held the bottle of wine, he could see the conversation continued with Thera's brows furrowing, concern showing on her face as she questioned the woman and the old man. With a sympathetic pat on the arm, she walked back to join him near the alleyway. "Where is that coin you confiscated from our two friends?" Pinching the thong at his throat, Alistair held the small bag aloft with a great measure of pride.

"Can you loan it to me?" Thera's eyes danced hopefully in the lamplight. "You know I'm good for it." Her grin was dazzling, and Alistair doubted he could have refused any request she made just then.

"For my favorite friend, anything." After all, he reflected, the point of taking the pouch hadn't really been the money.

She looked beatific, pointing discreetly to the elven woman. "Her husband has been lost on the roads; it's just her aging father to help care for the children. I thought our coin combined might ease her burden, and we'll hardly miss it."

Without waiting she took the pouch, almost skipping back to where the small family huddled near the gate. He stood speechless, watching her press the money on them without any hint of superiority or obligation. The elderly man held the two leather purses in his weathered hands gingerly, as though they might disappear. The woman squeezed her little girl with one arm as she embraced Thera with the other. Alistair swallowed hard several times,fighting against the stubborn lump in his throat.

"Thank the Maker." He offered the quiet prayer under his breath for whatever luck had brought them together.

When the fire was burning well in the small pit they dug behind the stable, Thera lit a lamp and ordered him inside, to the loft. He was surprised to find his bed there now, along with a small iron brazier for heat and illumination. It seemed Thera had worked the same magic on the Redcliffe servants that she did on everyone else, even overriding the arlessa's attempts to deprive him.

"Sit by the light, and I'll get my bag." Settling onto the floor with his back against the foot board, he folded hands behind his head, reclining, and watched her sort through herbs, powders and small glass vials. He was puzzled by the number of skills she seemed to possess.

"You're the daughter of an arl; how did you learn all this?"

"Hmm?" She was gently tapping something from a vial into a small mortar.

"All the cooking and fighting and medicine. I mean, your a woman so I'm not _that_ surprised. About the cooking. Not that I'm surprised a woman can fight. Or nurse people. And naturally women can cook, and not just because..."

"Shhh!" She was laughing and trying to keep her grip on the pestle. He was grateful she didn't throw it at him.

"After...what happened, I refused to go home. Instead I went out into Badren and found someone willing to help me begin my atonement. The first people who agreed to take me in were Elmet and Trisse; they were quite old and childless so, help that wasn't hired was blessing... inept though I was." She chuckled, and he sensed she was recalling some specific blunder. "In exchange, they taught me all sorts of useful things. Usually because of their age it was verbal lessons, with my attempting the instructions through trial and error. Mostly, error."

She winced dramatically; Alistair couldn't help teasing her. "_You_, failing at something?" To his surprise, she set the pestle down and turned to face him in all seriousness. "Alistair, if you _ever_ accidentally catch a chicken on fire, _don't_ shoo it into the barn."

"_Right_. Got it." Some things, he guessed, were better left unexplained.

Kneeling beside him, she cradled the stone mortar in one hand. "Trisse was a renowned herbalist and healer, before her hands and eyesight failed her. In his youth, Elmet had lived in hiding as a criminal from the Orlesian occupation. He was very skilled with a slingshot, and frighteningly adept at poison making."

To Alistair, the mortar in her hand became an object of supreme and immediate interest. She laughed, and he could see she was noting the direction of his glance. "Don't worry, none of that was imparted to me. Well, not much anyway."

"Really not inspiring confidence, here."

She was kneeling beside him, one knee resting against his hip. "Hush so I can look at your lip. Open your mouth and let me check your teeth." He felt troubled as she leaned in close, mouth inches from his to examine the wound. Women weren't supposed to be that close, and he was definitely not supposed to feel so happy about it. His whole body froze as her index finger slipped between his lips, gingerly wiggling against his bottom teeth, then pressed the middle of his lip; the contact seemed to have a liquefying effect on his bones, and he sighed. Her hand pulled back as she continued pressing, examining his mouth. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips. Thera's eyebrows raised worriedly. "Did that hurt?"

"Huh." He couldn't remember words, only how to make sounds.

Thera met his eyes and winked. "Looks like you get to keep that winning smile." The blood roared to his cheeks with such force Alistair could hear it in his ears. Did she really think his smile was winning? He groaned silently; _what was wrong with him_? He shifted uncomfortably as she reached for the mortar.

The soft auburn arch of her brows drew together with a care. "I wish I could tell you this won't hurt. I guess I _could_, but now that we're friends I'd enjoy the surprise a _lot_ less."

"Your concern is touching."

"You like that?" She treated him to a dimpled grin.

Alistair thought he liked it very much.

She grimaced, voice soft in way that made him feel a little melted inside, and leaned forward. "I'm very sorry."

Without pause she rubbed her middle and index fingers hard across the split on the side of his lower lip.

"_Oww_!" It burned, froze and tingled unmercifully; tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. "You did poison me!" He could barely manage the accusation while holding his mouth stiff against the pain. Spit gathered behind his lip, threatening to trickle onto his chin. It was hard to say which was worse; the pain or the humiliation.

She was biting her own lip with worried sympathy, or maybe just a concealed giggle; his vision was too blurry to tell. He was certain she was enjoying it.

"If it's any comfort, the pain will stop momentarily, and you should feel very little."

"No, really, it's not."The words were barely spoken when the conflagration abated, and his mouth relaxed. He poked the injury hesitantly and felt almost nothing. "That's great!"

"Good! Now, keep your dirty fingers off of it." She took his right hand, dabbing at the knuckles with a clean, damp cloth from her bag. "This won't hurt so much; the hand has far less feeling."

He watched dubiously as she spread the salve in one quick motion with her pinkie; he gritted his teeth against the sting, but as promised it was far less uncomfortable. He marveled at how improved the wounds were feeling. Resting a hand on his shoulder she leaned over him, pressing a quick chaste kiss against his cheek; a few strands of escaped hair brushed his neck.

"You were a very good sport about all that."

The sisters at the monastery taught that what he was feeling was to be ignored, exactly the sort of base behavior that had driven away the Maker in the first place. The arl had also instructed him at length about how a man of character thought of and behaved with a woman. The warnings and admonishments were all so confusing; he wasn't inviting impurity, but he certainly wasn't inclined to try and stop it.

Alistair felt tremendous relief at being the only one to notice his distress. Thera was already absorbed in wiping off her tools and packing them away with the herbs. The sound of whinnying drifted up from the stalls. After a few moments, she cast him a quick glance over her shoulder.

"I was surprised to find horses here in Redcliffe. I hear they're common enough in Orlais, but you scarcely see them in Badren and some cities I've heard of have none to speak of at all."

The subject was a welcome distraction, especially since he knew something on the matter. "Mabari. Have you ever seen them without a master? They bond for life, so when it's master dies, the thing runs about uncontrolled. If the darkspawn get a hold of it, the animal becomes practically unstoppable. One mabari could slaughter an entire stable of horses with no effort at all. Or a small village, for that matter."

"Impressive. And informative; they have no mabari in Orlais, at least that I know of, so I guess they would have more horses."

One of the servants from the house materialized at the top of the ladder, giving an obligatory bow. "Pardon me, lady; the arl has sent for you, Alistair. He wishes you to join him in his sitting room."

Thera arched her eyebrows, casting him a puzzled glance. "Sounds official; you should go. Maybe you'll be back just in time to eat."

Alistair looked at her, sitting there on the dusty floor. "You'll be here when I get back?" He felt a little afraid she was a beautiful illusion that might vanish.

Thera jubilantly clapped her hands. "Of course; tending dinner. No more chicken fires in the barn for me!"

Her laughter was contagious. "Right. Of course. Till then..." He raised his hand up uncertainly. _A wave? Who gives a woman a wave? _Alistair shook his head. Brother Fodran was right; some days he really was hopeless.


	6. A Father's Passing

The castle was eerily quiet, appearing deserted as he passed through the main hall. All around were preparations for the evening meal, plates and goblets, bottles of wine all seemingly abandoned by their attendants. An uneasiness settled in Alistair's heart upon mounting the stairs; it was the same way he'd felt at ten when the arl announced he was being sent to the chantry.

Reaching the sitting room door, he entered without knocking; the arl was hunched over on his favorite seat, hand moving absently over his shock of a beard again and again. Opposite was his younger brother, Bann Teagan; Alistair hadn't seen the man in almost ten years and barely recognized him now. Alistair had the niggling sense he'd rather not be seeing the bann now.

Eamon looked up, realizing they were no longer alone, and held his arm out to Alistair. "Come and sit by me boy." It was meant to be a comforting invitation, but a chill ran through Alistair's blood at the hoarse tone.

He settled on the long sofa beside his guardian. Both older men looked at him with drawn expressions; Teagan's eyes appeared red-rimmed while Eamon's voice was faint and rough as he spoke. "I do not know what effect, if any, this may have on you... Your father's ship was lost at sea; all aboard perished. The king...the king is dead. I'm sorry Alistair, for what it's worth."

Sound seemed painfully magnified; the breathing of the men, the snap of dying coals in the grate filled his ears for long moments as a numb coldness settled in his chest. Years of discipline had helped him push aside thoughts of his father, to feel safely detached, but he'd always imagined there existed the option of one day seeking the man out, asking questions. Now, that chance was gone. He hadn't expected to feel much, if anything; certainly not the ache now taking hold. After all he was, Alistair realized, an orphan.

The walk back to the stables was the loneliest he'd made yet. While his father lived at least there had been some concern for his well-being; even the king's bastard received a certain measure of care. With his father dead, he had only the arl to watch over him, and his faith in that quarter had been sorely shaken of late. He supposed it didn't matter; he was a grown man and practically on his own now anyway.

Coming around the side of the stables in the dark, Alistair beheld a heartening sight. Thera sat before the fire on a knotted log, toes perilously close to the blaze. Though she was wrapped in her cloak, her skirts were pulled back to expose bare ankles; it brought a reluctant smile to his lips. With her hair pulled back in a soft not she looked impish and lovely. He was about to approach when her voice lilted to him on the air, followed by a joyful laugh. Pressing against the cold planks of the stable wall, he peeked around the corner, listening.

"He was very skillful with the slingshot. You would have been impressed by how well he fought. It's the strangest thing; the moment I saw him, I knew he was special. And that we would be friends. Well, maybe that part was wishful thinking, being that I'm a little thin in the friend category."

She was talking about him, Alistair realized. Her thoughts were deeply touching, but who she was telling? Leaning farther out, his eyes worked to search the dark side-yard; firelight illuminated a fair amount of space, but there didn't appear to be another soul with her.

"Well, that's really all I have to say for now. I wish this hurt less, but that never seems to change. And of course, I love you."

Realization dawned on him at last; she was talking to Aldan. Stepping out from the shadow of the building, Alistair tried hard not to give any sign he'd overheard her prayers. Thera stood immediately as she caught sight of him, brows drawing together. "Alistair, what's the matter?"

"My father is dead." The words hardly felt real as he spoke them.

"Oh Alistair." Her arms slipped around his back, pulling him into a comforting embrace. She didn't ask if he was sorry, or how he felt, or any of the other uncomfortable questions he wouldn't be able to answer. Alistair took comfort in her quiet presence, feeling she of all people could offer comfort at such a time. Circling arms firmly around her shoulders, Alitair tried to absorb her compassion. After long minutes he heard her voice, muffled against his shirt. "Are you hungry?"

"Surprisingly, yes." In the arl's sitting room, he'd had no appetite, but the late hour was catching up with his stomach.

"Do you want to be alone?" The question was asked evenly, and without any pressure. He knew that ,whatever his answer, she would understand. Alistair also felt this was not a time when he particularly desired solitude. "Not really, no." He felt one of her arms slide down, taking him by his uninjured hand and giving a tug toward the stables. Stepping up into the loft, Alistair could see she'd procured some things in his absence, including a shallow crate to act as a table and some plates. Settling on the floor beside the makeshift table, Thera poured their wine from the spindly blue glass bottle. He joined her, sitting cross-legged on the opposite side. She served him a plate; all the food smelled amazing and Alistair sorely wished he were in better spirits to enjoy it.

He ate in silence till he'd had his fill, then sat staring at the empty plate, a little lost. Thera's voice at last broke the pall."I have a gift for you; now may not be the best time, but..." She shrugged. "It's not much, but I think you'll enjoy it." He watched curiously as she reached under the crate, producing a small, paper-wrapped bundle. He could smell the contents the moment his hand closed around the wrapping. "Where did you get it?"

"From the refugee woman. It's a Dalish curd cheese made from Halla milk; most people have never tried it since we have so little contact with clans. It's probably my favorite, and I know your fondness for cheese, so..."

Alistair stared at the rough brown paper, moved. He'd only mentioned his love of cheese in passing, a fancy he'd learned from the arl that had grown into an enthusiastic hobby. He couldn't believe she'd made note of it, but wasn't surprised. "This is an incredible gift. Thank you, really."

"It's my pleasure to give it. Would you like more wine?" She was so attentive; he felt sorry to seem ungrateful, even under the circumstances. Suddenly all the emotional tumult caught up, and Alistair had to stifle a yawn. "Actually, I think I would like to lie down. It's been an...eventful day."

Thera nodded approvingly, re-corking the bottle. "Sleep will do you good. Get to bed, and I'll clean all this up." Her gentle concern did wonders for the weight in his heart, and Alistair wished yet again he were more skilled with words in order to express his gratitude.

Removing stiff leather boots with heavy hands, Alistair slipped between the warm, clean blankets of his bed. Thera's presence in the room was comforting; he closed his eyes and enjoyed it as she packed away the remains of their meal.

From the in-between state of waking and sleeping, Alistair didn't recall being aware of precisely when she finished, or when the room grew quieter. His first notion was of the mattress ropes giving a little more on the right side, and cracking one eye he saw her sitting beside him, head leaned back against the wall. As his eyes closed again Alistair could sense the pressure of her fingers, gently smoothing his hair and forehead until slumber wove its spell around him.


	7. A New Start

The two months that passed after his father's death were, improbably, the best and hardest Alistair could recall. Arl Eamon was at last persuaded not to return him to the chantry; instead, almost every day he woke early and went to the training yard with Ser Garritt, honing skills he'd learned with the Templars until mentally and physically exhausted. Some days he waited afterward in the town for Thera while she delivered a tincture or prepared someone's meal. Despite aching muscles and throbbing bruises, he would sit on the bench near the tavern until she came into view; the first glimpse always made his wait worthwhile. They would walk home together with him going on and on, her smiling and listening intently. After the evening meal, they went down to the lake to watch the stars come out. Today was one of those lucky days.

Alistair shifted his weight on the awkwardly low wooden seat, groaning at the way the edge bit into his sore leg muscles. "Why am I always waiting on benches? In my house...no benches! Giant, comfortable chairs."

"Who are you complaining to? Did you get hit in the head again?" Thera appeared from the alley behind him, hands on hips in mock exasperation.

Alistair was intent on having some fun of his own. "I'll have you know, it's not as great and amazing as it seems, being so tall. Seats are made for tiny people; you have it easier. Better, really."

He might not have a silver tongue, Alistair decided, but he'd grown clever enough to get under her skin by pretending to be unintentionally provoking.

Thera shrugged gently. "I do have it easier; better to be a tiny person than a giant a..."

"Oh ho, no! None of that talk!" The smug turn of her lips told Alistair he'd been bested. "I had to wait in the blistering sun for you extra-long, so you're going to be nice to me." Just then, a large raindrop smacked the front of Thera's dress, making a charcoal-colored circle on the gray fabric. She met his eyes, raising a brow. "Huh."

Trying to conceal a smile, Alistair wagged his finger. "You...you did that on purpose. You're a witch!"

Several townspeople passing through the square conspicuously turned glances in their direction; Thera tried to shush him through her laughter. "Alright, alright. I'll be nice if you be quiet!"

"Done!" Taking her hand, Alistair launched himself a little too enthusiastically from the bench, then winced. "I think my arms and legs are falling off; lucky for me we're staying inside this evening." He was graced with an enthusiastic grin. "Perfect! I know something new we can try alone..."

Alistair froze mid-stride, swallowing hard and releasing her fingers. "Oh?"

"Mhmm." She winked. W_hy did she wink_?

"Like...read a good book?" Alistair wondered if he sounded as anxious as he felt.

"No! The same thing any two people do when they're stuck inside."

"Ohh." He shuffled his feet, completely speechless.

Thera brightened. "Learn a new card game!"

The speed at which Alistair let out his breath surprised even him. "Cards. Right. Of course. Great!"

Laughing, Thera shook her head rapidly. "What did you think I meant?"

Alistair made a great show of looking around to ensure they were alone. "Well, I hope you don't think less of me...but I was sure you were going to ask me to put on a dress and dance the remigold."

She leaned in to him a little, voice throaty. "Would you? For me?"

He couldn't repress a grin. "Nope."

"A _pretty_ dress?"

"Not even for the king."

Her effervescent giggling was catching; Alistair found himself joining in as he was suddenly pulled along in tow down the street, Thera continuing to laugh as the rain began to fall in earnest.

Inside the stable loft, Alistair watched Thera raptly, listening to rain drops pelt against the shingles as she decided how to play the hand. "Tomorrow is my birthday, you know; I think you should let me win."

Slumping shoulders said her concentration was broken; he felt triumphant.

Clearly aggravated, Thera slapped down two cards. "Tomorrow is _not _your birthday; you're just trying to distract me."

Alistair decided she knew him a little too well. "She's caught me; my plan is exposed! Just kidding. It really is, though."

Her brows knitted into a frown over the cards. "I wish you'd told me; now I have so little time to find you something special."

"You could...let me win this hand." If he kept asking, maybe she would give in out of sheer irritation; it had worked once or twice before. She'd already beaten him at Trumps an embarrassing number of times over the evening. He had to wonder just how 'new' the game was for her compared to him.

"You can have that boon regardless; I'm too tired to finish the game." The words were barely out before she stifled a yawn, which he seemed to catch.

"Anyway, I already discovered your birthday some time ago, so I'm prepared despite your best efforts." Thera offered him a self-satisfied smirk.

"Oh, that's _so_ sweet. What did you get for me?" His obnoxious question earned a disapproving glare, as intended. Then she seemed to consider him for a long moment; that alone told him he'd won her over. "You can't resist telling..."

"I should make you wait, but you're right; I'm far too eager." Her smile was luminous as she clapped hands together, lowering her voice confidentially. "Several people in town said I should take you to Denerim. They suggested we visit a tavern called the Pearl, and tell them you were feeling _lucky_ on your birthday. It sounds so exciting! I wonder what it means..." Her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, clearly exploring all the delightful possibilities.

Alistair straightened nervously in his chair. The awkwardness was so uncomfortable; they weren't really having this conversation. "You know the Pearl is a..." He struggled; how to finish the explanation in the presence of a lady?

Her baffled stare was not encouraging. Why did he think his raised eyebrows would convey the message? "It's a place where, well... I don't think it's _my _kind of place."

She brightened mercilessly. "I was told it has something for _everyone_; I think you'll be quite surprised."

"Oh, there's a fantastic understatement."

"Why are you so against this?" Thera appeared crestfallen at his resistance.

"Because it's a...one of those...it's a _brothel_." She'd made him blush right to the ears; he hated it.

Her eruption of laughter was unexpected. "I know what the Pearl is, Alistair. I was having fun with you."

"Go and burn on Andraste's pyre." His naiveté always invited all sorts of torment, often from her.

Arms clutching at her middle, Thera was wracked with mirth until she fell out of the shoddy chair. "Ow! Ouch!"

He was amazed she managed to complain through all the gasping and laughter.

"Serves you right; you're a terrible person." A chilling thought occurred. "You're not really..."

She looked up at him from the floor, all seriousness."Not a chance."

"Thank the Maker." The surge of relief felt almost pathetic.

Thera righted her chair, settling a bit closer. He found her sideways glance more than a little disconcerting. "You're not keen on the Pearl... So, you've never..."

He couldn't help sighing; so it began. "Never...? Never what? Been to the coast lands? Seen a parade? Never worn a dress?"

Thera's eyes rolled. "Mock me all you like."

"It's not mocking, my friend. It's just that this is a game I get to play a lot. 'Alistair, have you never? _Really_? Never _ever_?'...It's exhausting."

She looked entirely contrite. "I'm sorry...It's just that by sixteen or so, many boys have..._paid a visit_." Her meaning was uncomfortably clear. "I was just curious. I'm sorry."

"Well, the chantry doesn't exactly encourage it, or sponsor visits to places like the Pearl. Or you know, condone or approve of it. E_ver_. I guess I was also raised to be... well, a gentleman." Alistair admitted to himself he was curious about her, too, but could never ask.

Thera pressed hands to her heart in a girlish, dramatic way. "That's very romantic. And rare." He appreciated that she didn't make him feel ashamed, but their conversation was growing uncomfortably risqué. "Great! Can we maybe talk about something else now?" His face was growing painfully hot.

She yawned again, and smiled. "We can talk about me going to my room. Good night, Alistair." It was his least favorite part of any night, when she left and he was alone in the stable.

As she passed behind him, Alistair felt fingers dig into his hair, tousling it; she was always testing him. "If anyone else touched my hair like that..."

Her hands went up in exasperation."What are you going to do when you wear a helmet all the time? Your obsession with your hair is a little..._ugh_."

"It's a _minor _obsession; let's be fair about it!"

"Yes, yes." Her voice echoed up the ladder from the floor below, sweetly patronizing.

Falling back on his narrow bed, Alistair indulged in a contented sigh. Despite the loss of his father and all the mixed feelings it brought, he had something akin to family in Thera. Someone to care about, and who cared in return. His fingers patted the front of his shirt, seeking out the shape of his mother's amulet. He liked to think it had brought him good fortune thus far; surely better things were in store from here on.


	8. The Threat

Passing through the courtyard the next morning, he noticed that Thera was conspicuously absent. Normally she was there to greet him with at least a passing hello as she left for her round of chores and visits. "Sleeping in, I'll bet." he grumbled, smiling

The humor was short lived as the gate came into view; Eamon was there, with several of the king's guard gathered around. Spotting Alistair, his expression became one of great concern. Alistair watched him approach wearily, tired circles underscoring his creased eyes. "You should come inside, boy. There is a problem; a very grave problem."

The words had the same sobering effect as freezing lake water, terrible and paralyzing. Alistair followed close on Eamon's heels, exceedingly sensitive to the fact that the guards were directly behind him. They didn't move upstairs to the sitting room as in times past, but rather went straight down the hall to the official gathering chamber.

Moving around to the far side of the long, rough-hewn table, the arl pointed to one of the massive chairs. "Have a seat, Alistair."

"I think I'd rather stand, thank you."

With a sigh, Eamon settled himself wearily, shoulders stooping as if under a great weight. "You are a man today, Alistair, in the eyes of the Bannorn...just as you were a man to the people at eighteen. And your brother Cailen has officially claimed the throne with his queen." The two events, Alistair mused, seemed improbably linked when presented in that manner.

Eamon leaned into the chair, resting his head against the high back; the regret in his eyes was unconcealed. "His rule is not without opposition, and he will have to fight like every king before him to hold the support of the arls, regardless of who his father was. In these early days of his reign a rebellion, even if unsuccessful, could be permanently destabilizing."

He'd always felt a little simple, but Alistair never thought himself a fool; the word _rebellion_ was not being mentioned idly.

"As a man of the age of majority in the eyes of the arlings you, Alistair, would be permitted to seek out support of the Freemen. Conceivably you would be able to raise an army of opposition to usurp your brother's throne, under a claim of blood."

The implication was far more pointed and accusing than he'd been prepared for; the shock made it hard to speak. "Not that...I would _ever_ do such a thing, or even consider it."

The dampness in the arl's eyes made Alistair's heart squeeze, then race with panic. "I know Alistair; I know. But all those matters in conjunction with your closeness to Tyaeri's daughter...he and his son Taran could be formidable allies to someone opposing the king. Cailen is not unreasonable to be concerned, even if he is incorrect. His advisors excite his mind with wild tales."

Eamon pulled himself up from the chair, coming to stand before Alistair. "I'm sorry, Alistair. Teyrn Loghain's counsel was to have you executed, thus avoiding any threat." Eamon's lip trembled, and Alistair watched helplessly as he struggled to regain composure. "Of course, I intervened. But the safety of Ferelden against the Orlesians, as well as the darkspawn, is at stake here."

Alistair could feel rage forcing bile to well up in his throat, and he could manage no reply. Fear paralyzed every muscle; Eamon's words seemed such a thin excuse.

"It's been decided that you should not complete your military training. You'll be sent back to the Chantry, and begin instruction as a templar at once. There you can find a purpose, and be watched closely enough for everyone's satisfaction. Your escort will arrive in the morning."

Alistair clenched and unclenched his fists as two decades of pent-up emotion came boiling over. Without thought his fist flew full-force against the wood paneling, sending out a spray of tiny splinters. "I have _never_ wanted this burden. My father was a _stranger _to me, and I an abandoned mistake! His blood has never been anything other than a punishment I cannot escape! And Maker condemn my mother for being so weak as to be seduced by his charm."

Fury overtook him as a hand flew to the delicate silver chain around his neck, ripping it free. The throw was a fluid extension, hurling the amulet against a high bookcase by the door. Countless pieces plunged to the floor, skittering across the wood."You have discharged your duty, Arl Eamon. Rest easy."

Alistair spun on his heel, and was out in front of the castle before the red fog finally lifted from his mind, leaving him unsure how he got there. Guards stood posted at the estate's main gate, stares distant and stony; he wouldn't be permitted to leave of his own accord. There was nothing to do but go back to the stables and wait for the commencement of his sentence, to return to the place that had beaten him down for a decade.

Outside the stable he kicked a log with such fury that it took the bottom rail off a section of fence. Once inside, he came undone, throwing a pail down the aisle between stalls. Turning his anger on a pitchfork, he splintered a crate of horseshoes with before hurling the implement like a javelin out into the stable yard with an enraged, unbidden yell.

As he gained the top of the ladder, panting, Alistair saw her there in the dark, sitting on his bed. Thera's legs were drawn up to her chest, eyes red-rimmed. Her voice was hoarse from crying, barely audible to him over his rapid breathing. "The king's men arrived with Loghain last night, just after I returned to the castle. I wanted to come and warn you, but I wasn't permitted to leave. I'm so sorry, Alistair." She choked on his name, tears pooling in her eyes again. He moved to the bed, settling down beside her; the tension in his shoulders relaxed as she leaned onto his arm. "Are they..." Alistair cradled her with his right arm until the sobs abated. "Are they going to execute you?"

Seeing her so terrified just fueled his anger; it took tremendous will to to hold himself in check. Instead he decided to try comforting her. "That was too good for me, it seems. I'm being sent to the chantry. For good."

"Don't jest!" She turned beside him, pressing her face to his shoulder; he felt the fabric growing damp. "You are as close to me as my brother. I don't think I could bear your loss; not after..." She sighed raggedly, and was quiet. Only then did he notice the soft purple crescent radiating around the side of her eye. "Your face...Thera, what's happened to your face?"

He'd expected her to duck her head, look away, but stony gray eyes met his without hesitation, the short deep laceration below her bottom lip telling a silent tale. "Teryn Loghain is a man of information, it seems, bent on having all the facts. And he likes to have them without protest. He was unconvinced that I had nothing useful to offer about you."

Inside he was impotent with fury, matched equally to his crushing disappointment. In the end it seemed no matter how hard he fought against it, his unfortunate birthright was inescapable. Slowly it had claimed everything important to him, including Thera. Alistair caressed her cheek with two trembling fingers, struggling to find his voice. "I'm so sorry...I will make this right for you, someday." As he grabbed her, Alistair realized the embrace was crushing, but there was no tempering it for several long seconds. She was too dear to let go of easily.

As he at last pulled away, Alistair felt a tug in his chest. There was something in the moment, in the way she was looking at him and the way he couldn't stop staring at her mouth. Before he could decide what to do, what it meant, the feeling passed as quickly as it had come, and they were moving apart.

Sitting up, Thera swung her legs over the edge of the bed, patting her eyes, and reached beneath the frame. She came up with a medium sized cloth bag. "It's still your birthday, for what it's worth. This gift might come in handy now." Her voice was quiet, and flat.

He took the bundle, feeling somewhat awestruck. "I haven't had a birthday present in years." Certainly not, he mused, since before he was first sent to the chantry.

Unfastening the wide flap, he peered inside and discovered eight pairs of heavy, hand-made socks. The top edge of one caught his attention, and he pulled it out for inspection. Along the band, '_Alistair'_ was spelled out in small, neat stitches.

"I put your name on them, for the laundry. At least now no one at the chantry can take them. You can't go around with holes; you can't...have socks with holes in them, Alistair. You'll get sick." He could hear a tremor in her voice as she fought back tears.

"This is wonderful, truly. I'm...touched." He wouldn't, he thought, have traded those socks for anything.

Glancing up, he found her watching him intently. "Now what? Our time seems so short."

He crossed arms over his chest. "Well, leaving the castle isn't an option. And I'm really in more of a mood to sit here and... wallow in misery."

He felt the reassuring pressure of her hand on his forearm. "The Maker has a purpose for all of us, you know. I believe he has more planned for you than you realize."

"Sure, why not. Thedas has been saved again and again by bastards, right?"

"Oh Alistair, have a little faith. It's hard to see right now, I know, but great things could await you."

"The last time I told myself that, I nearly had a farewell party for my head. No, I'll stick to being pragmatic for now."

She shrugged as if shaking a weight from her shoulders. "At least we'll both be here in Redcliffe; that's something."

"That it is. Though, the arlessa will likely turn her disapproval on you now."

Thera gave a hint of a smile, unperturbed. "My birthday is in a few weeks. And I've already found a small group of healers in the village willing to let me room there, in exchange for aiding them."

"That's impressive; you must have learned a great deal from Trisse. I would certainly recommend you; my lip still works and everything."

"Does it? And here I thought it would turn out a disfigured mess." The pad of her thumb rubbed back and forth gently across the small scar; Alistair involuntarily parted his lips. "Well, it might not hurt to make sure; it could be broken."

Thera laughed, wiping at her eyes again, and squinted at her handiwork. If she took his meaning, Alistair decided, she wasn't showing it. "It's true; I owe Trisse so much. Both of them, really."

"Did you have to leave them, when you were sent away?"

Her wistfulness was apparent. "Sadly, no. Elmet died the month before; early spring is so cold and he was already frail. He was everything to Trisse; the night he passed she drank a lethroot tea and lay down beside him. I found them that way when I awoke."

"You must have been incredibly sad." She was so brave, he thought proudly. Somehow she managed to keep waking up to face each day with an open heart.

"Selfishly, yes. But their mortal bodies had failed, and they couldn't bear to be separated. Now they exist together in the Fade, warmed by the light of the Maker. That's something to be happy about."

"Do you think they can hear you, in the Fade?" He wondered about all the times he'd talked to his mother in the dark of his cloister cell, about hearing Thera talk to Aldan.

"The good spirits look out for us, so yes, I imagine that might be possible."

It wasn't the answer he expected. "You talk to Aldan; you're not certain he hears you?"

"I _believe_ that he does, even if I'm only pretending; I guess that's faith. And for me that's good enough."

She was right, he decided; sometimes believing had to be enough.


	9. The Chantry

Alistair discovered chantry life could not have been more quick to show him his unsuitability. The physical demands were welcome, but the routine and isolation weighed heavily on his heart. Things were different than when he'd been there as a child; he was now a Templar in training rather than an errand boy or kitchen help. He was also branded as a troublemaker, and an outsider for already having left the Chantry once. The somber piousness of the sisters and brothers quickly began to chafe; he struggled, and failed, adopt the detached suspicion the Templars held for the Circle magi. Alistair could find nowhere among them to belong.

For the first six months months, Eamon stopped in from time to time to see how he was faring. At first Alistair endured the interaction with polite indifference, letting the man do all the talking. After a time, though, he tired of what seemed Eamon's desire to assuage a guilty conscience, and simply made excuses not to see the arl. By the end of the first year, his former guardian just stopped coming. Only then did Alistair realize the visits had been a mixed blessing.

Thera, as an unmarried and unconsecrated woman, was permitted very few visits. At the start of his second year, the Revered Mother had decreed the visits unseemly, and Thera was no longer allowed to come privately to the chantry, not even for chaperoned visits. Being the resourceful girl he'd come to know and love, however, Thera always found ways communicate.

On mornings when he set up the training yard, Alistair often found a note or small bundle of cheese hidden somewhere. Sometimes he would catch sight of her, from a distance, on her erranda to the village, or the very rare occasion that she came to the monastery to aid a sick templar or chantry member. They'd passed more than a year that way, as invisible friends connected only by a note or a glimpse.

He felt the loss of his friend exceedingly, a loss that wasn't eased by his frustrations with the chantry. Babysitting mages and gobbling up lyrium hardly seemed the way to turn all mankind to the Maker.

As the time approached for him to take his vows, Alistair began to feel a growing urgency to cast off his hopelessness. He was miserable, unable to imagine the life which lay ahead as anything other than a punishment. If twelve years couldn't convince him the Chantry was the right path, Alistair reasoned, nothing ever would.

It was that very thought occupying him as he passed the notice board in front of the chantry. Generally it held offers for adventurers; services important to the citizens, but for which the Templars had no time. This morning, a large and intricately decorated vellum sheet covered the entire board. It was, he saw at a glance, a tourney notice. He'd fought in them before, very rarely; this one, however, was to honor the Grey Wardens and sponsored by none other than the knight-commander. It was to be an opportunity for the Templars showcase their finest.

That, he mused happily, was something to get excited about. The Grey Wardens were skilled and elite; there could be no question of their prowess against the darkspawn. Alistair envied such a calling; the glory and freedom of it. With eager strides he went into the hall, signing his name into the lists as a willing participant. Setting down the quill, Alistair experienced his first real surge of enthusiasm since returning to the Chantry.

The three days leading up to the tourney were nearly impossible to bear; Alistair found himself anxious, unable to focus on training or studies. The only thing to truly engage him in all his time at the chantry was combat, and he devoted every spare moment to preparation. He might not excel at it, but he enjoyed it and was determined to put it his skill to good use.

Despite lack of sleep from the excitement, Alistair woke early the day of the tourney, did exercises in the training yard and gathered his things. The mix of sound drifting from the village was already a loud buzz, with people from all over eagerly turning out to see the sport.

When he arrived at the courtyard, the activity looked like a fair. There were tradesmen, hawkers and throngs of others looking to profit from the interest generated by the Grey Wardens. Wildly colored tents, large and small crowded one side of the area, with shoddy makeshift booths erected haphazardly in between. Her and there visitors from far away had set up small but elaborate camps. The smell of roasting food, the chime of musicians and the barking of dogs mixed with the general sound of the crowd in a dizzying cacophony; his head spun with the struggle to take it all in.

"Alistair!" The voice was distant, but so resonant and melodic that it carried to him over the noise; he would know it anywhere. With a smile he turned, watching a small throng at the edge of the road parting haphazardly. He might know the voice, but he hardly recognized the girl with the ocean of auburn hair racing toward him. She absolutely stole his breath away.

"Alistair!" Thera was panting, cheeks flushed, as she threw her arms around his waist. After two years it felt wonderful; he couldn't hold her enough despite disapproving looks from fellow templars passing by. Alistair found himself shaken by the feel of her body against his; he struggled to find a distraction.

"Look, your hair is down! That must be accidental." He couldn't recall seeing Thera's hair in any arrangement other than a sensible chignon during their whole friendship. It was weak, but a distraction none the less, he mused with some relief.

To his amusement, Thera's small fingers began yanking the pack-strap free of his shoulder, hefting it up onto her back. "Don't be ridiculous! I told Lina at the public house that I was coming to cheer for you; she said I wouldn't bring you any glory looking like a scullery girl." She shrugged blithely, squinting at their surroundings. "For you I think I can soften my pledge just a little." He had to laugh as she made a nearly fractional measurement with two fingers. "Normally I would consider wearing it down a sort of vanity, but considering the occasion..." Thera smiled, and winked. She'd done it for him; Alistair felt his pulse race a little harder.

As they walked, he couldn't stop looking at her; Alistair realized it when he forcefully bumped the wood peddler, nearly knocking the old woman into a brazier. "What if ...someone else liked you wearing it down? That's not really vanity, is it?"

She stopped at the edge of the field, letting his pack thud to the ground, and planted a fist on her hip. "Alistair, I promise you there is not a _person_ in Fereldan who would take pleasure in my leaving my hair down."

She had no idea, he mused with disappointment. It didn't help that he wasn't the only one taking notice of her blossoming looks. Looking past her at the two ogling men, Alistair did his best to scowl like the other templars until the pair caught his gaze, and turned away uncomfortably. Realizing Thera was giving him a curious look, he smiled and shrugged. Inwardly, Alistair wondered if what he'd just experienced was jealousy.

Squinting, he scanned the lists, observing the other fighters. "How did you know I would be here?" He'd been surprised at being permitted, since the intent was to show off the prowess of the Templars; he often fell a little short of that category. Though his fighting was skilled, the Templars counted many of Ferelden's best warriors among their ranks.

"I checked the rolls when I brought grellanbloom to Brother Haldren." Her guilty expression lost some of its weight as she winked.

"_You_ are a very bad person." He tried to frown; it wasn't working. "Why did you come?"

"I told you!" She threw her hands up, exasperated. "I'm cheering for you."

He crossed arms, employing the glare once again; to his delight it was equally successful. Thera looked down sheepishly, reaching into her pocket. "And to bring you this." She held up a small brown glass jar. "You'll thank me for it tomorrow."

Alistair swore he could feel a faint burning in his lip just looking at the stuff. "You expect me to _willingly_ rub that on myself when I'm already in pain?"

Frustrated, Thera raised her voice over the din of the crowd; he only wished no one had been nearby to overhear them.

"I don't care if you rub yourself willingly or not!"

Several snickers echoed back from the men on the field.

"Right." Perhaps he could just blame his scarlet face on the sun. Alistair tucked the salve down into his pack.

Thera pointed a slender finger; Alistair watched her rake it up and down in front of his chest. "You're weak on your left flank; remember it, and you'll need less of my ointment."

"Thank you for...wait. How do you know that?" How _did_ she know that?

Her shrug was nonchalant. "There's a footpath through the trees on the back side of the training yard."

"You've watched me training?" Alistair thought he might have been more embarrassed once or twice before.

"Without your shirt." Smiling, she raised her eyebrows for emphasis; he was practically begging for the ground to open up beneath him. Not that he hated the idea, Alistair decided, just the hearing about it later. Her laughter didn't help his awkwardness.

"Oh, Alistair. You make teasing far too easy." She put a hand in her pocket again, this time pulling out a length of wide blue Orlesian silk ribbon. "I brought something else. For luck."

He watched intrigued as she pinched both ends, looping it under his arm. Tying it tightly around his spaulder with a small knot, Thera stepped back, seeming pleased with her handiwork. Flexing his arm, Alistair admired the vote of confidence, making her giggle. "It's great, really. Thank you."

Fighters were beginning to gather at the far end of the field; it was almost time to go. He couldn't help sighing reluctantly. "I get your notes, and your gifts. Thank you...for being you."

Her fingers came to rest against the back of his hand. "You're my friend; no thanks is needed. How have you been, otherwise?"

He hated thinking about how the chantry made him feel. "Great. If it's not maddening silence, it's repetitive instruction." Unconsciously, he shook his fists. "Makes my head want to explode."

She gave his hand a final squeeze. "Take heart, Alistair. I believe the Maker has a plan for you."

"Does it include _not_ killing abominations or being treated like dirt by the grand cleric? That would be _fantastic_."

She cocked her head, as if seeing something about him she hadn't noticed before. "Sometimes a door opens for us that we didn't even know was there. Be ready to walk through it."

He looked down at her and tried hard to memorize her in the moment, unsure when he might see her again. "As long as it doesn't take me further away.  
"You're dear to me Alistair; we can never be far apart, in here." Her hand pressed to his armor over his heart, fingers looking small and fragile against the steel. Fleetingly he wondered if she could ever think of him as more.

The horns sounded, and she stepped away with a mischievous grin. "Now, get out there and beat some respect into them."

The smile was contagious. "As you wish, my lady."

She turned quickly on her heel, swallowed by the crowd after only a moment. The urge to run after her, to say something his mind hadn't even thought up yet, was almost irresistible. He looked down at the ribbon around his arm, her token of remembrance; it felt strangely like an omen. He hated the sneaking feeling that Thera sometimes saw more than she let on.


	10. The Grey Wardens

Early summer sun was unforgiving as it soaked into his armor. The tourney was punctuated with a great deal of ceremony, drawing it out across the whole day, forcing Alistair to strip much of his gear. As the hours passed, Alistair began to realize that he wasn't going to be called in to fight; he was purposely being excluded as punishment for being difficult, head strong. At least he could watch and be amused; that was a nice change from the Chantry. After a while he made a game of looking for Thera in the crowd, with no luck.

At midday the horns sounded a break in the melee. Fighters left the field, awaiting the next round as they recouped their strength. He could now glimpse Knight-Commander Glavin, seated on a dais across the field, joined by Duncan, head of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. They seemed to be engaged in a heated whispering match; Alistair took what he was sure was considered an inappropriate amount of pleasure in seeing Glavin look so put out for a change, particularly when it was by a man more dignified and even.

After a moment of stony, obstinate inaction, the senior templar stood and gave a nod. Glancing to the left and right, Alistair couldn't spy anyone Glavin would be acknowledging; then realization dawned. Leaping up from his stool so hard it toppled over, Alistair pointed a hesitant finger at his chest. It was returned with an annoyed motioning of the hand, but he didn't care; he was too thrilled to let Glavin's disapproval spoil this moment. Running down the length of the wall he grabbed up his shed armor, strapping it on with such clumsy hurry that he had to right a few pieces more than once, leaving him feeling all thumbs. With a final deep breath, Alistair at last joined the other fighters in the courtyard.

It was sadly apparent immediately upon taking the field that Glavin wasn't the only templar who objected to his fighting. There were plenty of heated words and dirty blows to remind Alitair that he was unpopular, and uninitiated. Only Ser Erhyn treated him as an equal, even aiding him up after besting him in; to Alistair she embodied the true spirit of a Templar. Throughout the tourney he tried to model her example, showing compassion in his victories and humility with every defeat.

Called from the field for the last time, Alistair didn't feel as though he could lift his blade again. Cracked ribs cried out mercilessly, a cut on his shoulder stung like fire, and bruises to his back that hadn't fully developed were already throbbing. And almost all on the left side, he mused ironically. He'd taken Thera's advice to heart, but his weakness wasn't to be overcome in one tourney. Despite the handful of losses, he was pleased to have held his own and performed better than anyone might have thought.

Bending at the knees, Alitair crouched under the ropes at the edge of the field, wincing and grabbing at his side. Coming before the dais, he tried to stand with dignity under Duncan's wolfish gaze.

"You fight with a great deal of heart, young man."

Alistair shrugged a shoulder against the weight of his armor, then gasped with regret as pain shot up into his neck. "Yes, well...heart isn't really a useful defensive skill. Sad, really."

Glavin came off his chair, ready to chastise, but Duncan held up a hand for silence.

"I would strongly disagree with that assessment. Great heart can often be a better asset than a strong arm." The Knight-Commander made a contrary noise, crossing arms over his chest, but Duncan seemed to pay no heed.

Alistair really looked at the warden for the first time. He was not imposing, or forceful in his words, yet he could commanded great respect by sheer virtue of his presence. Duncan quietly inspired more awe than any fighter he'd ever met.

"I knew your father; his passing was a great loss to the Wardens. We owe king Maric our return."

Duncan clearly had a high opinion of Maric; Alistair decided to keep his thoughts on the matter private, and instead be diplomatic. "We should all be grateful to have the Wardens among us again."

Nodding thoughtfully a moment, Duncan scanned the field with hooded eyes. "The Templars perform a great service to Fereldan, both necessary and tireless. Yet Ferelden has a greater need of late and you, Alistair, have shown yourself equal to the task."

"Duncan, you cannot be so mad as this!" This time Glavin shot fully to his feet; Alistair fought with his entire being to check the grin twitching at his lips.

Before him Duncan stood, addressing all assembled, and Alistair felt the weight of the moment for the first time. He was being recognized for something, praised just for being himself; it was exhilarating. Still, he was as shocked as anyone by what happened next. "My decision is made; I shall recruit Alistair."

From the assembled fighters behind him, Alistair heard the discontented mumblings and outcries. He could hardly disagree; he hadn't been the best fighter on the field, not by a stretch. "But I didn't win the tournament!" They were hard words to say; by protesting, he risked the opportunity Duncan was laying before him.

"I did not ask for the tournament," Duncan responded unapologetically, "Nor did I offer recruitment to the Grey Wardens as a prize. That honor goes to the most _suitable_, not necessarily the most skilled."

Stepping down, he placed a hand on Alistair's shoulder; it was the warmest contact he'd had from anyone besides Thera. "I came here seeking a warrior of character, and I believe I have found him."

The words were both humbling and inspiring; his fortune seemed impossibly good. Too good, Alistair thought, as Glavin intervened. "Alistair is only weeks from taking his vows; he belongs to the Chantry and cannot be spared. Not even for _you_, Duncan."

Duncan's lips twitched into what Alistair regarded as the barest hint of a satisfied smile. "Then let it be known to all present that I invoke the Right of Conscription. From this day on, Alistair is a charge of the Grey Wardens, forfeited entirely by the Chantry."

Just like that, his life at the chantry was over. Alistair's breath exhaled suddenly, only then aware he'd been holding it. He stared at Duncan agape, wondering if the man were the Maker in human form.

"You cannot force our hand, Duncan! The Revered Mother will take this up with the king; we will have satisfaction for the imposition of your will." This time Alistair saw that Duncan did not bother to hide a placid smile. "As you wish, Glavin. But for _now_, Alistair is coming with me."

Terrified that somehow his good fortune would reverse, Alistair turned and ran with all the speed aching legs could manage to collect his gear. His head spun with disbelief. Nearly thirteen years of miserable solitude and half-hearted obedience were ended. Even more overwhelming was the reason; he was not simply to become a foot soldier, or even a knight. In one afternoon he'd achieved something many skilled warriors only dreamed of; he'd become a Grey Warden.

Alistair spun around eagerly, hoisting his pack, only to be stopped short. Anxious gray eyes took him in from head to toe. Guilt wavered in his heart at having forgotten her so easily. "Thera."

Her mouth curved upward just a little. "You're a Grey Warden now, Alistair. That's a rare opportunity. You deserve much praise."

Letting the pack drop heavily from his hand, Alistair threw his arms around her fiercely. "And I know who deserves the thanks. If you hadn't watched over me all these years..." He couldn't finish; it was too much.

She pulled away, wrapping fingers around his wrists. "I can't take any credit for this, Alistair. You were always meant for something better."

It was the gentle promise of years past; his chest ached at her words. "In my heart I know I would never have reached so high. I will carry that gratitude with me. Always."

Standing on tiptoes she pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw. "Then carry my love, too."

He wanted to speak, to say something of his own love; the masculine sound of a throat being cleared caused Alistair to start. Duncan appeared from behind a section of wall, arms folded patiently. "Have you said your goodbyes, Alistair?"

Looking down at Thera, he nodded slowly, trying not to let the sadness he saw there, or his own regret overwhelm him. She glanced at his arm, and smiled; he followed her gaze. "Look; my ribbon brought you luck after all."

He worked to smile in return, not wanting their last minutes to be colored by sorrow. "So it did."

"Let's see if you feel the same way about my salve."

Laughing in earnest, he stood staring another moment, then glanced to Duncan. "I should...well...it's time. Thera..."

She nodded somberly. "Go."

He turned to look back again and again as they crossed the courtyard; he would remember her that way always, in her gray dress, pretty eyes sad and hopeful, smiling back at him.


	11. New Recruits

That night at the warden camp, Alistair found a sense of belonging he'd never known at the monastery. There were at least two dozen men there among the little white spikes of tents, some doing chores, some playing cards, all sharing a quiet camaraderie. It felt like home.

When he was settled, a fellow warden summoned him to Duncan's tent. It was much larger than the others, more like a pavilion. Inside, Alistair saw why; it was practically the administrative center of the Wardens, housing tomes, maps, and stacks of scrolls. Aside from neatly sored equipment and a simple bed, most everything else stored in the tent did not appear to belong to Duncan personally. Four other men crowded the open area of the tent, standing or sitting in tense silence.

"Sit down, Alistair. You must be exhausted from today's exertions, and what we have to discuss will require great reflection and attention on your part."

Groaning at sore muscles, Alistair settled onto the earthen floor beside a nervous looking man his own age, stretching out cramped legs. Duncan stood opposite the group, stoic and even. "Do you know the Grey Warden motto? '_In war, victory...In peace, vigilance...In death, sacrifice'_ , though it is not only in death that a warden is expected to make sacrifices. The very act of joining our ranks demands it, and once accepted, it is a burden that can never be shirked."

"Glory, honor, slaughtering darkspawn...sounds reasonable enough!" Several men chuckled; Duncan acknowledged the jest with a nod, but showed no amusement. "You are young, Alistair. Are you certain that you are willing to give up the life that most men desire, a home with a wife and children waiting there for you? Are all of you willing to make such a trade?"

There were nods and quietly exchanged answers. Alistair shrugged, picking at a stubborn bit of grass growing up through the dirt. "Those things were never in my future; all that awaited me was an eternity of fighting with the Circle of Magi."

Duncan's eyes searched his face, hawk-like in their perception. "There is one, I think, who might give you pause in your decision."

"Thera? Oh, no. It's not like that...with us. She's a friend, a sister. And really I owe this to her; it would be wrong to abandon this chance."

A wiry, unsettled-looking man named Klev piped up beside him. "I can't go back to the city; they'll have me hanged before I'm in the gates. Whatever you got here, it's a damn happier lot than that." From behind them, Alistair heard murmurs of agreement.

Duncan's dark eyes watched them all a moment longer. "Very well."

Standing over them, Duncan crossed arms on his chest. Alistair was certain from the squaring of the man's shoulders and the resonance of his voice that the truly serious part had begun. "Once you set yourself on this path, there is no turning back. If you agree, here and now, your only choices are success, or death. Do you understand that?"

_No I don't_, Alistair realized. He'd expected it to be training, fighting, perhaps some magic and a lot of discipline; Duncan had dispelled that illusion with only a few words. But it didn't matter, Alistair decided. Whatever the cost, he would accept all risk; it was not as though anything waited for him outside the Wardens. Even his friendship with Thera would be forfeit, since leaving Duncan would mean going straight back to the monastery. In the end, he didn't need to understand. Thera told him once that sometimes all you needed was to believe, and for her he would try.

Everyone else had given their agreement to the terms; Duncan looked to him last. "Alistair?"

"I accept recruitment into the Grey Wardens, whatever the cost." Hopefully, Alistair mused wryly, he wouldn't live to regret it.

"Then we must talk of the Joining."

His companion's voice was hesitant. "Joining....with the Grey Wardens, right?"

"With the darkspawn. When one takes the joining, they accept the risks of the Blight's taint. Only in this way can the Wardens fight the darkspawn around them, and prepare for the rise of an arch demon."

Alistair tried to let the words sink in. "I'm sorry...I must have fallen asleep. I'm quite sure you just said we have to become tainted."

"To a certain degree, yes. Though, so is all which encounters the Darkspawn ."

"And how, exactly, is this accomplished?" He hesitated to wonder.

"That is something which is revealed only during the initiation ritual; up until that time any of you may chose to leave without fear of judgment or consequence. That is why the deepest secrets of the Grey Wardens are never revealed prior to the Joining.

"So...you're going to make us drink dwarven ale?" Alistair heard the others join in his chuckling; in truth, he was only trying to alleviate some of his fear.

"This is not a laughing matter, Alistair. Not everyone who takes the joining survives. Those of us who successfully emerge from the trials still have a hard road ahead.

Behind him was the sound of nervous, uncomfortable shifting.

"Do you ever regret your sacrifice, Duncan?" From behind him, Alistair sensed the intense gazes his question had drawn to Duncan.

"I have never regretted the peace and safety the Wardens bring to the people of Thedas, but the choice is not an easy one. Never let it be said, however, that it is entirely thankless, either. "

Was he ready for such an undertaking? More importantly, Alistair wondered, was he prepared to die? To be a Grey Warden, to have a place and a purpose...Alistair felt they were worth the sacrifice. He stood, wanting to meet Duncan eye to eye. "Very well. I am ready to take the Joining." The other initiates came to stand beside him.

"Very well. There is one last task you must perform; go out into the Wilds and slaughter the darkspawn. From the beasts each of you must procure a vial of blood." As Alistair began to rise, Duncan's hand weighed down heavily on his left shoulder. "This is no simple errand, Alistair. Darkspawn know no fear; they fights more viciously, more terribly than any human opponent. You must all be one another's eyes, and you will require all the heart you can muster."

"I understand." Breathing deeply, Alistair tried to relieve the clenching fear gripping at his chest.

"Good. Let us make our way out into the forest and have done with these formalities."

As the small band wove it's way out of the camp through the heavy undergrowth, Alistair watched the last golden explosion of sunlight flickering low on the horizon. All around the shadows lengthened until, when they'd gone almost a half mile from the camp, darkness began to settle over the forest in earnest. The first thing that struck him was the silence; the evening song of the birds, buzzing insects, even the breeze had stilled. The only audible noises were the crunching of leaf litter beneath their feet and the nervous, short breaths of his companions; even these Alistair struggled to discern over the thunderous pounding of his own heart. Duncan moved specter-like before them, traveling fluidly along as if a part of the surroundings.

Initially Alistair found himself tensing for every imagined sound or movement, until the blood pounding in his temples became a throbbing headache. After a half hour spent jumping needlessly, he realized it was wiser looking to Duncan for cues; with as deep a breath as he dared, Alistair let his shoulders relax. It was then Duncan snapped to a halt, throwing up his right arm to signal they'd reached their destination. "_Now_ I relax." A heavy shush issued from Klev beside him; Alistair did his best to look apologetic in the dark.

Duncan turned, speaking so quietly that Alistair found himself forced to squint, straining to see his lips as they formed the words. "I have sensed the darkspawn, but in a moment they will, in return, be aware of our presence. Prepare yourselves; we will likely be outnumbered."

Gil, one of the older recruits, piped up in a hoarse whisper. "Can we not just isolate one and kill it? Surely we'd all get enough blood to fill our vials."

It was a convenient enough plan, but Alistair thought the man was missing an important point, point. "As wardens it will be our job to kill them; may as well get started."

He could make out Duncan nodding slowly in the dark. "Well put, Alistair. That is to say nothing of the fact that darkspawn are not independent creatures; they act as a collective. Draw one and you draw his companions, no matter how far apart."

Climbing slowly up the low embankment with his companions, Alistair steeled himself for what might be waiting when they crested the rise. Duncan's warnings were all understatement; Alistair realized it the moment his head came above the grass.

Across the clearing, less than a hundred yards or so, Alistair saw his enemy for the first time. As promised, the misshapen group was huddled together, already alert to their approach. Alistair realized he'd never known such real, paralyzing terror, not even on his darkest night at the monastery. Rather than conceal the hideous mob, the fading dusk only added to their macabre. One short, stilted creature sniffed about with it's half-rotted pig snout for the enemy. _For me_, Alistair silently corrected. Another, formed like an upright-walking bull with a deformed human face leered with a never-ending grin; Alistair realized quickly enough that it was because the thing lacked any sort of lips. It was the same for all dozen or so of the monsters before him; all twisted shapes that amounted to nothing identifiable as human or animal, and all in a perpetual state of decay.

Slowly Alistair became aware of a wet sound coming from just over his shoulder; turning to follow the gaze of Duncan and the others, he made out the rapid trickle darkening the red leather of Gil's left boot. He noticed the only person not aware of incident was Gil himself; the man's eyes were fixed wide open, staring across the clearing, but it was apparent he no longer saw anything. His short blond hair and been nervously pulled into a shock atop his head in a style something akin to a scarecrow; his mouth smacked noisily every few seconds with the struggle to swallow back fear.

Without warning, Gil's wide frame turned abruptly toward the embankment, faster than Alistair assumed the man was capable of moving. Klev, in his panic yelled out for Gil to stop; a collective howling moan rose up from the darkspawn across the clearing. Any advantage they had was lost; Reflexively, Alistair drew his sword without any shred of a plan.

"No!" With preternatural speed Duncan kicked out a leg, obviously prepared for the recruit to flee; his foot tripped Gil at the edge of the slope, sending him tumbling like a rag doll head-first into the ditch below. "You have two choices; face this evil with your fellow wardens, or be cut down in a gully." With the final word, Duncan kicked Gil's sword down the slope after him. Groping wildly for it in the dim light, Alistair was convinced for a moment that Gil intended to use the weapon on himself.

There was no time to give further thought, to Gil or anything else. The darkspawn bore down on their party, now at a disadvantage on the lip of the ridge. Hefting his blade, Alistair tensed every muscle in his legs and launched forward; if he was meant to die, he intended to meet death halfway.


	12. The Joining

With his back to the tangled knot of tree roots, Alistair rested elbows on knees and hung his head. Despite the sweat beading furiously across his forehead, he felt cold inside. After one last futile attempt to clear his vision with the heel of his hand, Alistair took a ragged, steadying breath. It had been impossible to understand what Duncan and the other wardens were trying to convey when they described the horror of the Darkspawn. It wasn't merely their appearance, or the viciousness of their savagery; in his experience a wild animal could fit such a description. It was the taint which terrified him. Where they had slain the group of darkspawn, all plant life died immediately; as the blood trickled away, the black tarry river created similar devastation in it's wake. The burning across his skin, damp rattling in his lungs, and the buzzing between his ears that felt strangely enraging...Alistair recognized them all as side effects of his brief contact with the darkspawn. An enemy that could kill without striking a blow, lay waste to the land without initiating an assault, and always with that twisted leer upon their faces; Alistair could conceive of little more terrifying.

The moment each recruit had filled his vial, Duncan began issuing stern, sharp orders for the bodies to be hurriedly piled together. Alistair imagined the smell couldn't be any more nauseating, but as the flames licked higher at the mound of dead creatures he'd worked hard to stifle the gagging. Staring back up the slope toward the clearing, Alistair could even now make out dancing orange tendrils through the trees, filtered by putrid smoke.

This day, he realized, would define him as a man; it would define them all. He allowed his eyes to dart momentarily to Gil, seated a good distance away near the ditch he'd been knocked into. The man had rallied to fight, but the unpredictable, manic fury of his attacks were more self-preservation than skilled battle. The terror had clearly overwhelmed him, Alistair suspected past the point of ever recovering.

Duncan stood slowly, a shadowy silhouette against the distant firelight, signaling that it was time to head back to camp. As he unfolded his frame to stand, Alistair regretted having rested in the first place. All of his muscles felt inches too short, strained from over-exertion; his wounds and bruises from the tourney cried out in protest with each movement. Whatever sleep he managed that night, Alistair decided it would be the most deserved of his life.

On their way back, the moon came out; several days yet from being full, it still provided adequate illumination. Alistair noticed that everyone, himself included was doing a wonderful job of looking at Gil in the dim light while pretending they weren't; their thoughts were easy enough to read. Duncan had said they were brothers, with every man at his companion's back; now, no one in their party trusted Gil to fill that role. Alistair offered a quick prayer that, whatever fortitude Gil lacked, it would be granted him in the Joining.

The camp was uncomfortably quiet to Alistair as they entered, and drawing closer to Duncan's tent with the weary band, he realized he was about to face the first major event of his life without Thera beside him. Whether he perished during the ritual or awoke in his tent the next morning, ultimately he was alone. For the first time since his lonely night in the stables, Alistair felt the threat of real tears. Only the compelling sound of Duncan's voice abated his sorrow. "Alistair, hand me your vial."

Reaching inside the cool, smooth leather of his pouch Alistair had to will shaking fingers to grasp at the long, narrow bottle. Duncan's palm was outstretched and ready, saving Alistair the embarrassment of betraying nerves with the tremor of his own hand.

"This blood, combined with lyrium and a single drop of blood from an archdemon will grant you each the gifts of a Grey Warden."

With revulsion, Alistair observed Duncan prepare the potentially deadly concoction. So, this was the reason for all the secrecy, the reason there was no turning back was the ritual began. If anyone discovered the source of a warden's strength, a shortage of recruits would be the least of the order's problems. Steeling himself, Alistair tried to stand a little straighter and ignore the thundering pulse in his ears.

"I will teach each of you the words that have been said at every joining since the Wardens first came into existence."

Moving from the table near the tent flap, Duncan held aloft an ornately carved chalice and turned to face them. Alistair's mind raced, evaluating all he would lose and gain in the act of a single drink. Duncan held the dull pewter cup before him, voice resonant as he recited the creed.

"Join us, brothers and sisters; join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsaken, and should you perish know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, and that one day… we shall join you."

Alistair could only stare for a long moment, transfixed by the chalice until he felt it was beckoning, whispering for him to take it up.

Without allowing time to change his mind, he grabbed the stem and tipped the cup to his lips. The smell was akin sulfur and rotting flesh, the liquid a bitter slime that coated his tongue. All the muscles of his neck worked with effort to swallow and instinct to resist; the mixture was barely forced into his throat when a seizing took hold of his limbs, violently wracking his body. Alistair found his lungs could neither expand nor contract; the burning in his veins caused him to begin screaming, and only the swell of oblivion yawning up from beneath his feet at last quieted his cries.

He was blind; Alistair was certain of it the moment he opened his eyes. His back was pressed flat against something, but the ground where he's fallen in Duncan's tent. The feeling was softer, like a bedroll. Busy sounds reached his ears from all around; the ring of a smithing hammer, murmured conversation, but all his aching eyes could discern was a muted, indistinct glow.

Then, a bird sailed overhead, and he realized sheepishly it was only the glow of sunlight through the tan canvas of his tent. Slowly, he raised his back off of the blankets, and sat up. A moment passed, then another; he waited for agony, any signs of what he could recall from the ritual. Aside from the weary throbbing around his eyes, Alistair felt no pain; in fact, he felt rather the opposite. His muscles cried out to be tested, flexed; his frame felt somehow overall...bigger, hardly mortal at all. A thunderous, hollow growling from his stomach was a pointed reminder to the contrary; Alistair decided he still needed food, and lots of it.

With one short, sharp push he was through the tent flap and on his feet, shading his face with one hand against the daylight. Duncan's voice from behind was unexpected, but Alistair found himself prepared, as though he'd already known the man was there. Part of the Joining, he realized; it was what Duncan meant when he said the Darkspawn presence could be felt.

Duncan stood before him, arms crossed loosely over his chest; Alistair wished the man's eyes were easier to read. "Alistair. How do you feel?"

Holding up an arm, Alistair rotated it a little, examining for any changes; with a quick flex, he nodded. "None the worse for wear, considering I'm one part evil-taint."

Seeming satisfied, Duncan nodded briefly. "That is good; your training will need to begin immediately, and every lost moment is a detriment to both you and your fellow wardens."

Relaxing, Duncan stepped in closer and Alistair felt something in the weight of the hand resting on his shoulder. "I am especially grateful that you survived the Joining, Alistair. You have the makings of a great warden, the kind our order has not seen since before our exile from Ferelden."

He was speechless, Alistair realized. Duncan's words robbed him even of his ability to think of a clever quip. "Thank you, Duncan. I will do my best not to disappoint you." Reminded of the others, he scanned the busy camp. "What of the others? How did they fare through the night?"

"As well as can be expected from those with so little preparation."

Mole-like, Klev poked out his head from the tent beside them, and groaned. Bending down a little, Alistair offered a hand, leveraging the slighter man to his feet. "So that's that; we're wardens?" His narrowed eyes wavered uncertainly between Alistair and Duncan. Alistair couldn't help himself; "That's right; somehow, we fooled them. Now we're in; no taking it back."

Duncan straightened. "I want you both to appreciate what you've undertaken here; becoming a warden is one matter. Surviving the Joining is its own feat."

There was something in the way he spoke; Alistair wondered if Duncan were making a greater point. "Did we? Survive, I mean. All of us."

For his part, Duncan looked truly sorrowful. "Gil, I'm afraid, did not."

Kicking sharply with the leather tow of his boot, Klev kicked up a small torrent of dust. "Course not. He was a coward; couldn't face any of it, from the very start."

"Before you pass judgment so harshly, let me remind you that _many_ do not survive the joining. Even the stoutest of warriors has succumbed from initial exposure to the taint."

Grief settled heavily in Alistair's heart; Gil's last day of life had been filled with terror, self-doubt and probably a good measure of shame. Even so, he'd come to the Warden's by choice. "Gil made the effort to become a Grey Warden, with the same chances and shortcomings as the any of us. Failing hardly seems a reason not to respect him; I think we should feel grateful he made the sacrifice."

He could see, surprisingly, that Klev was taking the words into consideration; Duncan nodded his approval. "Well put, Alistair. Many are not so willing to take the risk. Both of you, join me in my tent when you have eaten. I will gather the others, and we can begin preparations for the next part of your training."

Watching Duncan retreat across the camp, Alistair wondered how the man did it. Duncan's selflessly devotion to their order was more than just admirable. The man struggled to rebuild the wardens and their name with minimal support, thin resources and questionable recruits; to his infinite credit, the man was succeeding. But at what cost, pondered Alistair as he trudged toward the mess tent. Duncan had to ask people to make sacrifices every day that required people to give up their lives, to die. Whether claimed by the Joining or the taint of the blight, a warden's fate was set in stone. Shuddering, Alistair counted his blessing twice that such decisions didn't rest on his shoulders. He was no great leader; despite Duncan's affirmation, he wasn't even certain he'd be a good warden. Taking a moment to observe the camp as he waited for food, Alistair felt none of that mattered; he was finally free and finally, it seemed, somewhere he belonged.


	13. An Ominous Sign

The late summer greens faded into the rich burnished reds of harvest time. Just when a uniform brown began to take hold of the landscape, winter snow laid blankets over Ferelden; Alistair hardly noticed the changes.

Training was rigorous, camp life demanding, and slowly he'd been entrusted with more and more responsibility until, at last Duncan had begun assigning him to participate in scouting missions. Two or three wardens alone in the Wilds was a risky proposition, and Alistair felt honored to be chosen and join in the excitement. His personality never truly seemed to mesh with his companions, but Alistair found everyone tried to be inclusive, and he could never really complain about a little more time to himself.

The current mission however, included only him and Duncan and had thus far been utterly boring; an unsuccessful attempt to recruit new members that had lasted nearly a week. Alistair was glad to be heading back to the familiar surroundings of the warden camp, even if they were empty handed.

It was his turn to keep watch; Alistair shrugged deeper into the coarse wool of his cloak to fight against the late-winter morning. Shifting against the chill of his cold stone perch on the hilltop, he watched the horizon slowly beginning to wash gray at the far end of the valley. In the months since becoming a warden, he'd grown to love the nights when he sat up alone till sunrise.

He might belong with the Grey Wardens, but Alistair was beginning to recognize that he would never be especially close with any of them, save Duncan. The other men quickly picked up on how their leader sheltered him, and began to follow Duncan's lead; some had inadvertently discovered his parentage. With the loss of anonymity, Alistair found he sought out solitude more often; he was happy just to take orders, going mostly unnoticed.

Duncan was the only exception to his isolated routine; Alistair took every possible opportunity to be with his mentor, performing any task with which the commander would entrust him . In such company he was treated as a man, an equal; in return , through Duncan's tales, Alistair found himself afforded glimpses of his father that cast king Maric in a different light. For the first time Alistair felt he was hearing an unbiased account of his father's life; the man was no paragon, but he certainly wasn't as incorrigible as Alistair had always imagined.

Plaintive cries from Duncan's tent brought Alistair to his feet atop the rock. He'd learned the first night after his joining that nightmares were a significant downside of being a warden; they came as a warning of immediate danger, possible danger, premonition...sharing the taint linked a warden to the darkspawn across the metaphysical realm of the Fade, regularly turning dreams into dark periods of terror.

Duncan was a seasoned warden; his dreams were often significant, and Alistair covered the ground at a jog to reach the tent with haste. Thrusting an arm past the heavy flap, he shook Duncan roughly. His hand registered a spasm, then he heard panting; a second later a disembodied hand threw up the flap.

"Alistair."

"I'm here, Duncan."

"We are alone; rest easy."  
"So...your nightmare wasn't a warning?"

Face cast in shadow, Alistair could read very little in Duncan's expression, and was left to interpret his words. "No. We are quite safe, for now."

"You've had a lot of troubling dreams lately...?"

Sighing wearily, Duncan leaned forward a bit to rest a heavy hand on Alistair's shoulder. Alistair could more easily see the downcast eyes and weary expression on Duncan's face. "I think what it signals, Alistair, is the Calling. Nothing more."

"No. Duncan...No. So soon?" Alistair hated being reminded of how little time Duncan had left. He remembered first asking about the Calling, and the terror he felt when Duncan explained how the quickening gifted tremendous strength, even as it slowly robbed a warden of his humanity. The idea of being sent down, alone, into the Deep roads, to fight the Darkspawn until consumed...

Duncan's chuckle was muffled by palms rubbing wearily over his face, pulling Alistair out of his black thoughts. "Soon to you, perhaps. But it has been a long time in coming for me; perhaps longer than most. When the day arrives to make my final journey into the Deep Roads, it will be with some relief. It is with good reason that a warden does not live much beyond thirty years past the Joining; they are a hard-won few decades."

Duncan would leave him, soon; the knowledge brought Alistair more sadness than when his own father died. He decided it was yet another thing that was easier if ignored.

"Enough about all this; build up the fire and let's have something to eat."

Alistair moved immediately to do as he was bid, always eager to please where Duncan was concerned. It wasn't until Alistair noticed the meal was almost entirely prepared, with Duncan still absent, that he realized what his friend had really been asking for was time to regain composure. When Duncan appeared outside the tent some minutes later, Alistair saw the same measure, dignified man he'd come to know.

"How are you faring among us, Alistair? It's been nearly half a year since you joined the order."

"I'm happy here. And grateful; you know that already." Alistair recalled having been embarrassingly vocal in his enthusiasm at being recruited, as well as in his disparagement of the Chantry. The arch of Duncan's eyebrow, though, communicated that was not the current topic.

"And what of the things you left behind?"

Almost unconsciously, Alistair shrugged. "What of them? Neither of us can change our paths. Besides, she's probably already forgotten me!" The laugh sounded flat, even to his own ears; Duncan didn't seem to notice. "Your separation may save both your lives, Alistair. Tyaeri is one of the few legitimately wealthy arls in all of Ferelden, with strong ties to Orlais."

Alistair raised a hand, feeling he'd heard the same speech before. "I have barely escaped with my head once already thanks to that; not a place I'd like to go again any time soon. Besides, I've made my choice and here I am; no use getting sentimental now."

Only later, alone in the camp did Alistair let himself admit the truth; that one hundred and seventy-four days had failed to heal the ache in his heart left by Thera's absence.


	14. Bearer of Bad News

Smiling through the awkward silence, Thera sat across from Cadrien in the tavern, waiting to get things over with. His note said he wanted to thank her for healing his sister, but judging by his ear-to-ear grin and the way his fingers nervously slid around his drinking glass, she guessed there was more to his visit. They'd seen each other at his home many times over the last month, enough for her to pick up on his interest and attentiveness.

"Thank you again, for everything. Milla is doing wonderfully; moving her here was a great idea."

Thera was at a loss; she'd already checked in on the girl for the last time, satisfied with her recovery. "That's...wonderful."

Brightening, her companion nodded in agreement. He was handsome, she admitted, and earning a bit of renown as a knight. The girls in the marketplace certainly spent their sighs freely on him. When Thera took in his strong jaw and tousled black locks, all she saw was Aldan; she wasn't ready to see otherwise. Though he was a loyal enough sort to wait until she was ready, Thera felt in her heart it was more fair to be honest with Cade; she didn't love him now, and probably never would. It didn't help, she mused, that the loss of Alistair had served to reopen a lot of those old wounds.

"I've started looking at a small estate near my father's in Highever; the lands are beautiful and I would have plenty of room for a family."

_Just say it_, Thera sighed to her self, chewing at her bottom lip through a smile. She hated what was coming; Cade was a good man, and a friend. Hurting him felt terrible and she feared they'd crossed the point of no return for friendship.

"My sister thinks the world of you; that's a big endorsement in my book."

"Well, she's ten; they can be surprisingly easy to please at that age."

Nodding, he laughed. "True. But you're very good with her, with children. You'd make a wonderful mother, I think."

He'd gone right to the point a little more directly than she expected; Thera could only shake her head for a moment. "I'm only nineteen; I'm not sure you're right about that. Besides, I hear being married helps with being a mother."

She groaned inwardly at her blunder, seeing immediately that Cade took it as encouragement. "I'm pretty sure it's not a requirement, but I can't imagine a man who would object to marrying you before having babies. Certainly not this man."

There was a glow in his eyes, and his mouth curved ever so slightly in a way that made her feel like kissing; Thera reminded herself that she didn't have the feelings to back her actions. "Cadrian...you are a good and noble man. You make me wish I could say yes, but my heart still belongs to someone else."

"Alistair?" His voice may have lost some enthusiasm, Thera decided. but that glow in his eyes wasn't abating. "He might love you, but so do I; and here I am, ready to prove myself to you, Thera."

He was completely undaunted, and Thera found herself stunned by his conclusion. "Alis...no. No. Why would you think that?" She shook her head, trying to clear the confused fog. "No, I'm in love with someone else; someone from my past that I'm not ready to let go..."

A jarring slam cut into her thoughts; jerking around in her seat, Thera saw a rectangle of light where the tavern door had been flung open, silhouetting an imposing frame.

Searching the room a moment, the man's shadowed form oriented toward their table and he began moving forward; Thera shrugged her shoulders against the tremor of fear running up her back. Cade stood from his bench so abruptly that it practically tumbled. "Ser Feltan." The two clasped hands as she sat, puzzled.

Thera could make out the older knight's features now; they were weathered and kindly. She realized it was the nature of his entrance, not his appearance that had given her pause.

"Ser Cadrien. There's word from the king that we're to join Teyrn Loghain's forces in Denerim at once...It's the Blight."

Icy threads wove their way throughout Thera's chest at his words.

"Eamon has not yet committed any soldiers, but Highever calls her men to action."

Cade's dark eyes met her own; Thera winced at the regret there. "Then I must answer." Without breaking their gaze, he answered the knight. "I will meet you outside the chantry once I'm ready to depart." With the barest hint of a nod, Feltan turned to go. Bracing hands on the table, Cade leaned down until his face was only inches away. "Don't make your decision now; promise you'll think about what I said, at least until I return."

Sighing, Thera studied his face carefully, feeling her resolve crumbling. It felt dishonest, waiting longer to decline his proposal; at the same time, Cade had enough to face already. Her decision would be no different if it kept for a time; at last she gave him what must have seemed a hesitant nod. "I'll withhold my answer until this is over."

He gave her his most winning smile, one that might have been knee-weakening to any other woman. "I could hardly ask for more." Cade's face brushed past hers, pressing a chaste kiss to her right cheek. When he stood and looked back down at her, she tried to appear neutral without hurting his feelings.

He pointed at the tavern door, teasing her. "I'll be right back."

Laughing, she nodded enthusiastically. "Sounds good."

With a last look, he stepped away.

"Cadrien...be safe." She might not love him, but she certainly cared about him.

His grin reassured her. "I'll be back before you know it. It's not as though I'm going across the world...just to Ostagar."


	15. The Warden

He was having...an argument? Alistair rubbed palms together, confused.

"I simply came to deliver a message, ser mage; the Revered Mother desires your presence." He'd like to think the man's hostility was due to his past as a Templar, but it sadly seemed rather more generalized.

"What her _reverence _desires is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens – by the king's orders, I might add!"

Now it was just ridiculous. Alistair felt the last of his diplomacy slip away. "Should I have asked her to write a note?"

Rennick's eyes bulged a little as he threatened Alistair with one finger pointed like a dagger. "Tell her I will _not_ be harassed in this manner!"

"Yes...I was harassing _you_ by delivering a message." Yes, Alistair decided; it sounded equally as ludicrous when he said it out loud.

The query earned him a disgusted sigh. "Your glibness does you no credit."

Hands outstretched entreatingly, Alistair did his best to sound placating. "And here I thought we were getting along so well! I was even going to name one of my children after you...the _grumpy_ one."

"_Enough_! I will speak to the woman...if I must. Get out of my way, fool."

Pleased with his success, Alistair watched the irate mage's retreating back, and shook his head. He'd only come to deliver a message; it seemed no good deed went unpunished in the camp today. Realizing he wasn't alone, Alistair turned to the man who had appeared at his side. " You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together. Do you ever wonder why they call it the _circle _of magi? I think it's because that's all they do...go round and round with you until it makes you _crazy_!" He shook his hands for emphasis.

His companion's eyes narrowed a little. "You're kind of a strange man; you know that?"

"Hah! I hate to disappoint, but you're not the first to notice that about me."

He took in the newcomer. The man looked to be about his own age, built like a trained fighter. His gaze was searching and perceptive; he gave Alistair the impression of a wild creature that didn't submit unless allowing itself to be subdued.

"Wait; you're not a mage. No, I know you; you must be Duncan's new recruit. I'm Alistair, the junior warden."

"Aedan, from Highever. My father is...was Teyrn Bryce Cousland." Alistair could see the shadows move into Aedan's eyes as he corrected himself. It was hard to know what to say to a man who'd lost his entire family in one night; Alistair decided to take the approach that would put him most at ease, focusing on the task at hand.

"A pleasure. Now, we have some things to do in order to prepare for your joining. The other recruits are around here somewhere; let's gather them up and get going." Alistair led the way back toward the heart of the camp with Aedan matching stride; the man's eyes seemed to take in all the activity as he spoke. "Oddly enough, I know very little about initiation into the Grey Wardens."

"With good reason. It is an old ritual, and only a handful of the most senior wardens know the details. Naturally that excites everyone's curiosity."

Most new recruits were sufficiently overwhelmed by his sleight-of-hand answer, too awed by the adventure of Joining to press the issue. Aedan apparently wasn't so easily satisfied. "What can you tell me about the Joining, as someone who's been through it?"

Alistair liked the frank, authoritative manner of his new charge; it left him wishing he could be more open about what the man faced. "Honestly, nothing. The process of initiation is secret for a lot of reasons, ones that only Duncan can really explain. Anyway, you'll see him soon enough; I'm sure he'll be able to answer your questions once we've taken care of all the preliminary tasks." He said nothing else, but a furrowing brow told Alistair the matter was still turning over in Aedan's mind.

They found the other two recruits already with Duncan near his tent. As Alistair sized them up, he felt growing concern. Ser Jory had a noble heart, but his new family tempered the amount of risk he seemed willing to take. Being a warden meant taking any risks necessary to stop the blight, and it just didn't seem Jory could ever make such a commitment.

He took in the thin, shifty man next to Duncan. Daveth...Alistair wasn't certain what he was doing among the new recruits. He trusted Duncan's judgment implicitly, and certainly the wardens counted more than one cutpurse among their ranks; however, Daveth was a hard one to read, leaving Alistair a bit uneasy. Beggars couldn't be choosers during a blight, he supposed.

Duncan cast him an approving smile. "Alistair. I see you've met our newest recruit; excellent. Now that you are all here, we should begin." His mentor paced a step or two in each direction, heavy dark brows pulled low atop his eyes; Alistair had come to recognize after months of observation that Duncan always paced like that when he was trying to reach a conclusion. " Each of you, in order to complete the Joining, must gather a vial of darkspawn blood. Alistair will accompany you, and help insure your safe return."

Alistair was being given the honor of overseeing this most recent joining; he could hardly conceive of the trust placed in him. The gravity of Duncan's expression, however, gave him pause."I have another task for you while in the Wilds; though the area around this fortress is not safe, I feel this particular... _errand_ will be of great importance in the months to come." Duncan gestured to the crumble marble arches jutting up all around.

"Long ago, when Ostagar was a strategic point and the wardens thrived in Ferelden, treaties were gathered from our allies, promising support if and when another blight was to erupt. In those days, everyone had forgotten the ravages of the last blight, and gave their allegiance freely. But now..." Duncan looked out over the valley, to the withering land before them, "It is very likely that it will not be so easy to garner support, not without documentation of their pledge."

Standing before him, Duncan spoke to Alistair almost confidentially. "I am entrusting this duty to you, Alistair. I realize this is a dangerous request; however, those treaties may be the only leverage we have in securing aid if, for any reason we should fail to stop the blight here."

It was a chilling notion, Alistair realized. If they didn't end the blight at Ostagar, they would be forced to fight it all across Ferelden. Such a loss would be catastrophic.

"I understand, Duncan. We'll search for the old warden base and see if the treaties are anywhere to be found." He waved an arm for the recruits to follow; Duncan's voice stopped him short. "And Alistair, the next time you feel compelled to _sass_ a mage, remember that we need every possible ally."

Alistair felt the embarrassed heat rise into his face. "Of course. I am sorry, Duncan." A curt nod told him Duncan accepted the apology. From over Duncan's shoulder, he could just see Aedan cock an amused eyebrow. Alistair liked the man very much; perhaps because he was reminded of Thera.

Aedan matched pace with him as they crossed the camp; Jory and Daveth trailed behind, arguing about the purpose of collecting darkspawn blood, lost in their own world. Alistair was tempted to break them up several times, then decided it was best they work out their differences now. On the other hand, beside him Alistair noted Aedan was focused, thoughtful, chewing slowly at his lower lip. "Have you fought the darkspawn before?"

Sweat beaded up on the back of his neck. " Only a few times. And I wasn't prepared, not at all. Darkspawn are terrifying, fearless. They fight like vicious, rabid animals...nothing like facing a human combatant." And the stench, he recalled with a sickened shudder; it had been rotten and heavy, almost impossible to breath through. "You'll do fine. Once you become a Grey Warden, you'll have the ability to sense them; that makes things a little easier."

Aedan cast him a dubious half-smile. "_How_ exactly will I acquire such a magical ability?"

"Using the blood, you'll cross over into the Fade and participate in a wedding ceremony with the darkspawn queen."

Alistair was unprepared for Aedan to actually stop mid-step, crossing arms loosely; he raised brows, looking only half-amused.

"No? Right. You'll understand, if you..." He barely caught himself. "After the joining, Duncan will explain the process." _Wonderful, Alistair_. Now was definitely not the time to terrify the new recruits with news that they might not survive initiation. As they entered a small clearing, a sound broke into his thoughts.

"It's a kind of war paint!"

"I'm telling you, they're testing our courage. Paint would just be...stupid!"

"Perhaps _you're_ stupid; mabari wear war paint with magical properties."

Following Aedan's eyes as he turned his head to look behind them, Alistair couldn't help groaning. Jory and Daveth were faced off, hands on hips, arguing over their present task.

Aedan glanced back at Alistair, shaking his head slowly in disbelief, then addressed their companions. "I think we're all eager to know more about our recruitment into the wardens, but speculating will only waste time. Let's focus and get this over with so we can move on to all the excitement of glory and women ." Postures relaxing, Daveth and Jory nodded, looking a little sheepish.

Alistair was grateful for how easily Aedan took charge. He never minded being entrusted with assignments from Duncan or taking orders, but being in charge...he could do without it. In the end, Alistair decided, he just wasn't destined to be a leader.


	16. Witch of the Wilds

To Alistair's chagrin, the exchange about the darkspawn blood wasn't to be the last such between Jory and Daveth. He and Aedan had spent most of the trek reassuring Ser Jory who, as Alistair predicted, was made increasingly paranoid by his attachment to his wife and unborn child. His anxiety wasn't helped by Daveth's brash posturing and apparently unintentional provocation.

Jory's motivations were pure, but Alistair was certain his coming to the Wardens had been a mistake. As Duncan had explained after his own initiation, it was better if a warden left nothing behind him; that was the only way to make the sacrifices required by the order. Jory had too much waiting at home; Alistair feared those attachments could jeopardize the knight and his fellow wardens in the future. Aedan confirmed his suspicions after the blood had been collected, while they were scouting for the ruins of the warden base.

"I understand recruiting Daveth; he's skilled and bold as a fighter. His rough edges can be polished down with time. Even after what we just faced, he's holding himself together. I'm little confused about Jory, though. He's...becoming something of a mess."

Grabbing a handful of the tangled undergrowth, Alistair ripped at it, pulling the grass and stems aside. "There aren't many wardens in Ferelden now. With the blight on our heels, it's up to Duncan to shore up our numbers. He does the best with what he's given; I admire how hard he tries."

"You think very highly of Duncan." Moving together down the low, rocky slope through the tangled branches to intercept Daveth and Jory, Alistair could feel Aedan watching him carefully, weighing his answer. "And so I should. He saved me from the Chantry, risking all sorts of trouble with the Grand Cleric. And he didn't have to. I _hated_ it there; if not for Duncan...I don't know what would have happened to me. I owe him everything." It was true, Alistair thought; he probably would have gone mad. Aedan nodded his satisfaction in a way that made Alistair feel he'd passed some sort of test. " I owe him everything as well; he saved my life." Alistair's felt his respect for Aedan grow exponentially.

In the clearing ahead, the golden late-afternoon sun was filtered into pale shafts full of dust particles, barely illuminating the ruined tower up ahead. Alistair felt a sadness stir in his heart; once the Grey Wardens had been a force to be reckoned with, numerous and centralized. They'd had strongholds and headquarters, been master griffon riders; now they were reduced to camps and hideouts with barely enough members to form a rescue party. But that was more than could be said for them two decades before; he supposed he should feel more grateful for the efforts of men like Duncan, and even his own father for restoring their order.

Placing a palm flat on one of the overturned quarry stones, Alistair vaulted over it, landing firmly on the root-laced dirt of what was once the entrance hall to the warden base. Aedan circled around the far side of a crumbling wall, joining him in the remains of the over-grown room. In one corner Aedan toed the rubble, exposing a bleached and porous femur. "What in the name of the Maker happened here? Why was this place abandoned?"

Alistair was gripped with real grief as he looked up at the jutting spine of the tower. "It wasn't exactly...abandoned; that's just a nice way of explaining what really happened. I can imagine, as a Cousland, you're familiar with king Arland." Two centuries before, Arland had slaughtered the Teyrn and most of House Cousland along with him; judging by the curt bob of Aedan's head, he was aware of his family's history.

"Arlessa Sofia Dryden was Warden-Commander in Ferelden when she decided to lead her rebellion against Arland...she had a strong claim to the throne of Ferelden. Unfortunately, the Wardens became her personal army. Arland took our involvement a little personally; our order was outlawed, and those who didn't flee to Orlais were cut down. Most fell during the siege of Soldier's Peak, even those who denounced the former arlessa. But a lot of others..." Alistair stared down at the anonymous remains protruding from the earth, "This tower would have been remote, and the wardens here likely had no warning of what was to come. They could have been killed at dinner, or in their beds or..."

It was touching that Aedan appeared nearly as distraught by the information. Bending down, he reverently scooped up a large handful of the debris, re-covering the remains. "We should find the treaties and head back."

"Of course." Steeling himself with a deep breath, Alistair glanced around the old building. "We're most likely looking for an iron chest or small vault. Though, after two hundred years, who knows."

Aedan called out for Daveth and Jory to scan the outer rooms, and Alistair moved deeper into the crumbling stone skeleton. He heaved up chunks of the wall and fallen ceiling here and there to look beneath, the dust making his hands feel dry and gritty. Aedan's voice carried to him through a massive hole in the wall to his right. "Do you think it would be about...three feet long? Maybe some sort of crest on the front and perhaps with an Antivan lock?"

Alistair was impressed; when Aedan used his imagination, he really went all out. "I'd say that's a _very_ good guess."

"Well, my guess is empty."

Alistair couldn't believe Aedan was serious. Picking carefully through the mounds of stone and mortar, he moved into the next room. Sure enough, the bent and rusted remains of a heavy iron locker lay mixed with the remnants of a roof slab. Whatever the contents, they were lost or destroyed; the disappointment was almost crushing. So much so, in fact, that he was completely oblivious to the soft footfalls echoing from beside them.

"Well, well... what have we here? Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse who's bones were long since picked clean?" The voice, throaty and contemptuous, drew Alistair's eyes to the decrepit ramp angling tenuously above them. The woman who appeared from behind the pillar was wildly beautiful, primitive and almost...seductive. The dark pile of hair atop her head offset the piercing gold of a gaze he could physically feel grazing over his body. Barely concealed breasts swayed slightly beneath her red mantle with each footfall. She continued, slinking closer toward them, stalking cat-like. "Or are you merely an intruder come into these darkspawn-filled wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" She faced them now, at the bottom of the walkway. Aedan stood from his crouch, looking as unperturbed as if the woman had been expected. Alistair wasn't afraid exactly, but he knew what she might represent, and it wasn't good.

"What say you, hmm? Scavenger, or intruder?"

He couldn't tell if Aedan was bold, or ignorant, but for his part the recruit didn't appear the least bit unbalanced by the woman's banter. He crossed arms over his chest and met her eyes squarely; Alistair was impressed by his command of the situation.

"Intruder? And just how are these _your_ wilds?"

She seemed to chafe a little at the question. "Because I know them as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same?" Alistair took it as a warning; only two types of people knew the Wilds well enough to make such an assertion; the Wilders, and apostates in hiding. Whether barbarian or blood mage, they would have to be cautious with their interrogator.

"I have watched your progress for some time...Where do they go, I wondered. Why are they here? And now you disturb ashes none have touched for _so_ long. Why is that?"

"Don't answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means other Wilders may be nearby." Alistair leaned close, his voice only for Aedan's ears. "They have no outside loyalties; the wilders would just as soon kill us _for_ our purpose as in spite of it."

She waved arms gracefully over her head. "Oh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you..." Obviously her hearing was more keen than he'd realized. Still, Alistair had to concede she was right. "Yes. Swooping would be..._bad_."

Daveth, forgotten in the back of the room with Jory, was apparently willing to be a lot less tactful about his concerns. "She's a witch of the wilds, she is. She'll turn us into toads!" Alistair winced at the unintentional provocation.

"Witch of the wilds! Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?" She stalked past them, to the remains of the entrance, seeming agitated by Daveth's accusation. She turned on them, thrusting her weight provocatively onto one hip; as her eyes surveyed them, Alistair got the sense she was carefully weighing them each for something. Her animal eyes settled hotly on Aedan. "You there, handsome lad... tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized."

Looking at him in profile, Alistair could see the barest hint of an amused smile tugging at the corner of Aedan's mouth. The answer he gave, Alistair suspected, wasn't the one he truly wished to. "You can call me Aedan."

"And you may call me Morrigan. If you wish." She gave a slight nod of her head, more to herself than anyone. It seemed she found whatever answer she'd been seeking from her exchange with Aedan.

"Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest...something that is here no longer?" She was toying with them, predatory; Morrigan clearly already knew the answer. Alistair felt his frustration explode. "Here no longer? You stole them, didn't you? You're some kind of sneaky...witch...thief!" Brilliant under pressure as always, he groaned to himself. It didn't help that she seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "How very eloquent. Exactly how does one steal from dead men?"

There was no time to play her game. "Quite easily, it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property and I suggest you return them."

For her part, Morrigan looked genuinely offended. "I will not, for 'twas not I who removed them! Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not fettered."

She might not be able to return them, but she could tell them where to look; apparently little transpired in the Wilds of which Morrigan remained ignorant. Aedan obviously realized this, too. "Tell us at once, or face the consequences. Chasind or apostate, I promise you won't outlast us if provoked."

Alistair was exceedingly surprised that Morrigan was so quickly brought to reason; perhaps she had simply tired of playing with them. "'Twas my mother, in fact."

Maybe, on second thought, she wasn't done after all. "Is that a joke?"

"If so, it seems the truthful rather than the funny sort, no?"

To Alistair, it felt they were losing all the progress they seemed to have made so far. "Great. She's a thieving, weird-talking sort of funny witch."

With a sideways glance, Aedan raised eyebrows in silent agreement.

Morrigan rubbed a hand up her hip and slowly rested it on her stomach. "Not all in the Wilds are monsters; flowers grow as well as toads." Alistair felt the hot stain color his cheeks; this time, inexplicably, her sultry banter was directed at him.

"If you wish, I will take you to my mother. Tis not far from here and you may ask her for your papers, if you like."

Finally they were making headway, though to Alistair it seemed purchased rather too easily. "We should get those treaties back, though I dislike this. Morrigan's sudden appearance...it's too convenient."

"Why are you interested in helping us?" Aedan didn't seem sold on her sudden change of heart either.

Morrigan shrugged as though shaking something off. "Why not? I do not meet many people here. Are you all so mistrustful?"

What she meant, Alistair mused, was that she met people enough; Morrigan likely just avoided anyone who would know her for what she was.

"Tell us more about your mother first." Aedan certainly had no intention of following her blindly; Alistair felt a strange comfort deferring to him. Besides, those raised to serve in the Templars were not natural leaders the way that those raised to rule the great houses were; people with his own upbringing, Alistair lamented, lacked a certain free-thinking confidence.

Morrigan cocked her head, genuinely seeming to consider her mother a moment. "She prefers her privacy, but I imagine she will be curious enough why you are here. Come, see for yourself."

Suddenly her artifice had vanished. Though he hated to admit it, Alistair found he agreed with Aedan when at last his companion spoke. "I say we go with her."

Daveth on the other hand, was swayed only by superstition. "She'll put us all in the pot she will...just you watch."

Jory stepped forward, resigned. "If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'll be a nice change." Even now, the two could manage to argue; Alistair rubbed a dusty palm across his sweating brow, exasperated.

With a sort of theatrical bow, Morrigan gestured to the tangled growth beyond the entrance. "Follow me then, if it pleases you."

"It doesn't please me. At all." The words were grumbled to him self, but the amused shake of Aedan's head let Alistair know he'd been overheard.


	17. Unlikely Alliances

Their exhange with Morrigan's infamous mother, though brief, was an unanticipated delay; Alistair wasn't entirely happy about returning to camp in the dark, even with Morrigan as an escort. It was almost worthwhile however, for a glimpse of the Witch of the Wilds; though, Flemeth was hardly what he'd imagined.

Initially he'd been suspicious, and a little fearful, with good reason; the woman was more than skilled in all forbidden magic, an apostate. _Practically their queen_, he amended silently. One thing he'd retained from his days as a templar was a healthy suspicion of unchecked magic; he was forced to admit there was more than a little fascination, too. It had been more exciting than he would ever confide to anyone, being in proximity to such a legendary if dangerous spell-caster.

Enigmatic as well, Alistair mused. Though she'd guarded their treaties, it was hard to say if Flemeth's lunatic giggling and cryptic words about the Blight were true signs madness or a clever deception. Of one thing, however, he felt certain: she'd warned that the threat of this Blight was greater than anyone imagined. That warning, Alistair decided, he was taking to heart; Duncan would need to be warned with all haste.

Morrigan's throaty words echoed back suddenly, interrupting his agitated thoughts. "I go no further. Mother bid me show you out of the Wilds, and so I have. Your camp is that way." He slender arm raised, pointing one elegant finger through the trees at nothing discernible. Alistair felt the blushing begin in his cheeks; the bottom of one breast was revealed by the lifting of her mantle. Fixing his eyes just over her shoulder, he cleared his throat a little. "Thank you for the grudging hospitality."

She shifted weight onto one hip; he felt his eyes move to hers almost against his will. One brow arched above her mesmerizing eyes, generous lips pursed ever slightly; Alistair couldn't help feeling much about her seemed calculated to keep a man in thrall. "On the contrary; were my hospitality grudging, you would still be in those ruins and _I_... would be far away."

He was ready to tell her where he thought she should go when Aedan stepped forward unexpectedly. "Alistair means 'thank you'. We all do, Morrigan."

Daveth and Jory mumbled incoherent agreements from over his shoulder; Alistair felt instantly annoyed."Hey! _Alistair_ doesn't mean any such thing!" No one seemed to acknowledge that he'd spoken; Morrigan simply gave a diplomatic inclination of her head to Aedan. "You are _most_ welcome."

She turned on her heel, and Alistair found it amazing how immediately she blended with the growth around her, like one shadow melding into another. Turning on his companion, he crossed arms over his chest and tried to appear stern. "_We all thank you, Morrigan_? Tell me you're not charmed by all that."

Aedan's smirk was the last thing he'd expected. "Not a bit; I prefer a woman who won't stab me in the back while we're in bed together. However, she and Flemeth have been of great aid; this might not be the only time. It can't hurt to finesse the situation a little."

With dubious amusement, Alistair gave a slow head shake and oriented himself toward camp. "You...I'm going to have to watch my coin purse around you."

Aedan matched strides with him, eyes straight ahead. "Then you should check the left side of your belt..." Without a thought Alistair slapped his hand against his left hip. "You...where is my pouch?"

The twitching corners of his mouth were all that belied the recruit's true feelings as he spoke. "You wear it on the right side. But..." Alistair couldn't suppress a grin as Aedan cast him a sideways glance, "I made you wonder."

"A very useful skill for acquiring spare change. Oh, and for making me feel stupid. Thanks." To Alistar's surprise, Aedan laughed for a moment as if it couldn't be helped, then turned on him with what appeared an almost serious expression. "Just so you know, I'm laughing _at_ you, not with you."

"Don't laugh at this! At least wait until you've heard about my childhood."

A little disturbed by the eagerness written on Aedan's face, Alistair turned and headed for the warden encampment. All teasing aside, their mission was weighing heavily on his mind. As Flemeth had forewarned, the seals on the Warden's treaties had long ago worn away; it was easy enough to see what the documents entailed. Alistair had assumed it was a simple matter, perhaps one nation aiding another; what he'd seen told a different story.

Seeming to pick up on a change in mood, Aedan spoke in a more confidential tone, allowing Daveth and Ser Jory to continue their idle banter. "You were quiet after we left the hut; is Flemeth's warning getting under your skin?"

Lowering his voice to match Aedan's, Alistair decided to confide in his new companion. "A warning from a dangerous apostate? Worry me? Hah. You're right; that would be bad enough. But the treaties...it's not just simple allegiances. Dwarves, elves, even the Circle. There must have been a reason the Wardens felt the need to get their promises in writing."

Biting at his lip, Aedan was thoughtful as the past through the forest in the last light of dusk. "Blights have been beaten back before; that is common enough knowledge."

"Blights, yes. But from time to time a Blight gives rise to an arch demon; in that case, the rules change."

In the growing darkness, it was easy for Alistair to hear the hesitance in Aedan's voice. "Is there a reason to think we'll see an arch demon? The treaties are a wonderful safeguard, but not exactly a guarantee of what's to come."

Recalling Duncan's increasing nightmares, Alistair felt his apprehension tingle through his body. There was no telling Aedan about the nightmares without explaining the Joining; besides, Alistair decided with a slight shrug, bad dreams were a sign of many things. "You're right. I'm probably just overreacting, like that time I locked myself in a dungeon cell."

Aedan's hand clamped him firmly on the shoulder. "Alistair, I think it's time you started in with those stories about your childhood..."

Squinting against the smoke, Alistair watched Aedan across the flicker of the campfire, standing apart from the other wardens while awaiting the Joining. Alistair realized they shared something; both their recruitments had been sudden and unexpected, neither under the best circumstances. The difference, he mused sadly, was that his own had been a welcome relief. According to Duncan, Aeden's recruitment came as the result of a deathbed negotiation with his father, the teyrn. Not that it meant Aedan was against being a warden, or unfit; he'd proven just the opposite earlier, out in the Wilds. But the circumstances...Alistair couldn't help a despondent sigh. Perhaps he could say something, make things a little easier for his new companion.

Picking his way among the groups of men around the fire, Alistair moved beside Aedan with a little space between them and simply watched what his companion seemed to be watching. Aedan was staring out at the dark blue band low on the horizon, where stars were just beginning to dot the sky, but Alistair wasn't sure the man was actually seeing anything.

"You did well out there today, against the Darkspawn. Look! You still have all your limbs; that's something." Aedan continued staring away, but Alistair heard the sincerity in his words. "Thank you."

"For...?"

The shrug of his shoulders was barely perceptible. "For not tiptoeing around me; for what you're doing now."

Alistair felt afraid to ask. "You were...thinking of them, weren't you? Just now, I mean."

Aedan pressed his lips together, nodding slowly as he searched the horizon. "I keep wondering why I'm still here...why me."

At the lift of Aedan's chin, Alistair's eyes followed the direction, out towards the land below..  
"I have a brother out there, somewhere in that valley. He left the afternoon that...he had a _wife_! A child." Aedan's head shook, as though trying to free itself of the memories. "I wonder if he's still alive."

Alistair wished he were better in situations like this; only one thing came to mind that seemed genuine and useful. "I'm afraid I have little advice to offer, and the good bits are certainly not mine. Not that you should follow any advice I give, _ever_...But someone I respect very much used to say that sometimes, just believing is enough. It's a nice idea, and it's never let me down." After a moment, Alistair too found himself staring off at the small spray of stars twinkling brightly above the well-faded sunset, trying not to think of her.

"At the very least, and it is small comfort, you are in good company. Everyone here gave up something to join; even Daveth, for all his claims of a solitary life, I suspect made his sacrifice."

Aedan was pointedly searching his face; he could feel eyes reading him for something. "And what did you give up?"

Tired and heartsick, Alistair could think of no way to condense the incredible thing he'd left behind into a few eloquent sentences. He was trying not to dwell on her, to fight the temptation to hide in his tent and pen a tome about his life and feelings. And, he realized, he was selfish with his love for Thera. It was a thing he carried in his heart that no one else could claim; Alistair sighed.

"Something rare and wonderful." He wasn't willing, or able to elaborate.

Nodding his satisfaction, Aedan stood there with him. "Thank you, Alistair."

Alistair said nothing in reply, but inside he felt no matter what transpired, to him Aedan would always be more than just another Warden.


	18. Alone, Together

**The Warden Camp**

Hours later, Alistair stood over the limp body of the newest warden recruit, grateful that the man showed signs of recovering. Aedan had lost his home and entire family in a matter of minutes; it would be understandable if he lacked the will to survive the Joining. But after half a night of suspense, he stirred at last; Alistair thanked the Maker that someone had survived. His own joining seemed a trifle compared the failure of this most recent one; to have one recruit out of three remaining left the taste of ashes in his mouth.

"Still with us? How do you feel?" It seemed a hopeful sign that his new companion didn't look any worse than other wardens fresh from the Joining.

Aedan rolled away against the dirt, and vomited; then, he gave a thumbs-up. Suddenly Alistair was feeling less apprehensive about facing the darkspawn with him. Aedan's hand rolled a few times, beckoning him closer; kneeling down, he leaned over the warden's prone form. "What's wrong? Is there something you need?" Neck craning, Aedan's forhead came to rest just above Alistair's ear, and he struggled to make out the man's hoarse words. "Was that it? I've had dwarven ale, you know." Alistair chuckled, heartened by Aedan's resolve.

"Right. Let's see how that enthusiasm holds up when I inform you that you're going into battle tomorrow."

Aedan jerked over onto his back once more, squinting his eyes in what Alistair thought could have been a glare. "Not if I die of hunger first."

"That's a lovely side effect of the Joining; eventually you sort of get used to eating. All the time. And all the other... wonderful quirks."

Patting a hand over his close-cropped hair and along his torso a few times, Aedan sat up. He wavered a moment before laying back down, curling up on his side. "Get _used_ to it... can I politely disagree, at least for now?"

"Well if you're going to be _negative_ about it..." For the first time in a while, Alistair found something to chuckle at. "I'll get you something to eat."

He watched Aedan's eyes search the tent. "Ser Jory? Daveth... _Oh_." A wince was apparent as he recalled the painful answer.

Alistair hated to say it. "Bad luck, really; at my joining we only lost one." He'd been as surprised as anyone that the loss of Daveth; he seemed hearty enough to survive the ritual, and certainly more stout than other recruits. But Jory...Alistair realized the moment Jory had begun to back away from Duncan at the ritual that things could only get worse. The man's despair over his wife and child had grown to blind hysteria, until at last he was fleeing; Duncan had been left with no choice but to kill him. He would have died in the Wilds while running, and Grey Warden secrets were simply too crucial to risk having them revealed. Alistair wondered how much his new companion remembered.

Aedan looked crestfallen. "Seems to be a trend for me, lately...being the only one left"

Duncan's voice sounded behind them. "The Couslands are an honorable, noble line; your family will be vindicated when the war is over. Even now King Cailan is taking the matter of Arl Howe under advisement."

Resting a hand on Aedan's shoulder, Alistair tried to be encouraging. "I know it may not be much, but we are your brothers. Family is not always the people you were born to, and we will stand beside you just as loyally."

Heaving a sigh, Aedan patted him on the shoulder and nodded; Alistair took it as an encouraging sign.

Duncan pulled a low stool to sit beside them. "We should talk of tomorrow's battle. There is much disagreement between Cailan and Teyrn Loghain about strategy, and I fear it will continue until the last moment. The Wardens should be prepared, regardless of what is decided."

Working up his courage, Alistair asked the question he'd wrestled with all night. "Do you think we'll see an arch demon here?"  
With relief, he sensed it was a question Duncan himself had weighed heavily. "I believe it is possible, very possible. And if we do, you leave me to handle it; no heroics on the part of either of you. I want that understood."

The words caused a squeezing in Alistair's heart. He knew Duncan's nightmares had grown exponentially just in the last few nights. His appetite was impossible to sate, and he needed little rest; the Calling wasn't far off now. Duncan was the closest thing to a father Alistair had ever known; their inevitable parting was hard enough, but to hear Duncan talk of sacrificing himself, even in hypothetical terms...it was almost too much.

"Alistair, your task will be to act as Aedan's shadow. Answer his questions, tell him all that you can about our order, and help him prepare for what is ahead."

It was an honor, as the most junior member of the Wardens, to be tasked with such an undertaking. "Thank you, Duncan. I will do my best."

"Aedan, your sole purpose is to act as Alistair instructs; watch, listen, and he'll keep you alive."

"Well, more alive than the _last_ new recruit who followed me about..." Duncan's arms crossed over his chest, telling Alistair the joke was not so well received. Remembering Aedan's earlier request, he stood. "...And I will start by getting you the food you asked for. Duncan can catch you up a little until I get back."

The night was crisp, the sky overhead clear as he stepped out of the tent. The camp was a split mix of snoring and raucous laughter; Cailan was in the camp for the second night in a row, playing card games with some of the more senior Wardens. It was strange, Alistair mused as he picked his way between piles of wood and gear, that he felt closer to Cailen as a soldier than as a brother.

The sleepy young man at the kitchen tent was happy to oblige Alistair's request for food, but very little was prepared. It would be some time before the fire was stoked and the food hot; Alistair decided to sit on the nearby overhang and wait till it was ready. Settling on the ruins of an old overlook, he leaned back on his arms against the cool marble and looked up at the twinkling stars overhead. _What do you think is up there? _The question brought a smile to his lips, the memory of that day almost allowing him to forget the horror of the valley below.

Somewhere maybe Thera was looking up at the same stars. He wondered if she thought of him anymore; he'd had little opportunity to think of much besides training and fighting since the Blight erupted. When Duncan informed him rather directly that Wardens were discouraged from family ties and personal relationships, he'd chaffed at being a member of the order for the first time. Duncan's reasons made sense, but Alistair found that didn't help his heart ache any less for her.

Reaching inside his breastplate, Alistair tugged out a crumpled length of silk. The blue dye had long since faded to gray where it wasn't stained with dirt or blood. The ends were frayed and it had small holes here and there. It could have been two strings and a clump of mud and still be worth carrying, Alistair thought. Pinching one end, he slid thumb and index finger over the remaining smooth spots on the ribbon again and again. Thera said it had brought him good luck; he thought maybe she was right. In the morning, he would need it.

**The Public House**

Through the dusty, mottled pane, Thera stared up at the glittering night sky, eyes growing progressively heavier. The public house was surprisingly quiet; the only sounds she could discern were the deep, even breaths of her slumbering roommates and the faint, rythmic creaking of a bed from somewhere down the hall. She blushed in the dark; there were no other places in Redcliffe that accommodated such...urges, but she still felt a little sorry for that room's occupants, having to face everyone in the morning. A public house, Thera reminded herself, had no confidences; sliding her hand between her blanket and the splintered floorboards, she felt for the loose plank where her own secrets were concealed, testing it with one finger.

With a steadying sigh she rolled onto her side, wriggling with agitation against the lumpy bedroll. Earlier in the day there'd been an emissary to see Arl Eamon; his arrival had been cause for her to worry on two counts, the reasons she couldn't sleep now despite gripping exhaustion.

The first concerning matter the man had revealed in a mildly drunken and maximally annoyed tone, was that he was tired of being put off because the 'old man' had a winter cough. If that were all Eamon's illness signified, Thera mused, she could relax; however, she'd watched the slow decline of her cousin's health for over a month. Now he was too ill to receive the king's representative in a time of war...she felt certain there was more to the story than anyone realized.

The other burden mulling in her heart was Alistair. The emissary had revealed the battle against the Darkspawn would commence in the morning, with the Ferelden wardens among the king's forces.

The burning knot in her belly twisted another fraction at all the things that could go wrong. There was no question about his skill or bravery; Thera knew she should have faith that he would be alright. Hugging her midsection for comfort, she recalled telling herself the same thing the morning Aldan had gone off to duel her father. Aldan...she thought of him so little now; a small measure of guilt crept over her. She still loved him, Thera rationalized; it was just that Alistair...her mind banished the words before they were fully realized. No, he wasn't more _important_; she gave her head a shake, denying the notion. But Aldan was in the Fade somewhere, safe, and Alistair was here in the present, needing her more. It was that simple, she decided; not the sort of love where she had to choose.

Eyes closing with resignation and exhaustion, Thera breathed out slowly; her silent plea was for the Maker to watch over Alistair in the morning, and to help her accept his will.


	19. The War at Home

"No!" Bolting upright, Thera felt herself surface, as though she'd been underwater too long. Sweating, gasping, she thrashed against her twisted blankets. The nightmare had been so visceral and terrifying; her arms and legs still sensed the grasp of hot, leathery skin stretched over bony fingers.

Grateful that Rivan and Aida seemed not to have noticed her cries, Thera adjusted her pillow and settled back onto the palette. With slow, even inhalations she worked to calm herself. It wasn't the first time she'd had this nightmare; she always recognized it upon waking, but the initial panic erased most all of the details from her consciousness. She dearly wished she _could_ recall more; unlike dreams and nightmares in the past, the echoes of this one didn't leave her after a few moments of wakefulness. Though the particulars were lost, it left a tremor of fear in her heart for hours, sometimes the whole day. Since it was believed a person entered the Fade when they dreamed, Thera worried greatly that something, the _same_ thing, always seemed to be waiting for her. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply. "I dwell in the light of the Maker." Offering the quick prayer, and realizing she wouldn't get anymore sleep, she rose and began dressing. One of the village women to whom she gave domestic help was expecting her baby any time; it couldn't hurt to visit the home early and see if she could be of aid.

Hesitating in front of the open bureau, Thera passed over her usual brown work dress in favor of a slightly more presentable gray one. Before starting chores for the day, she would pay a visit to Eamon. Perhaps it would perk him up and put her a bit more at ease; sometimes it also gained a little second-hand news from home.

Picking up her boots, she stepped lightly between the two sleeping girls at her feet to reach the door, letting it retract in a painfully slow arc to avoid its usual cat-like wail upon opening. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she cut across the dim, unoccupied front room and out the door, settling on the steps without moving for just a moment.

The sun was just beginning to cast its first soft pink glow across the tops of the buildings as she tugged on her boots. It was her favorite time of morning, with the smell of bread and woodsmoke from the blacksmith's forge drifting lazily on the air. From all around came the sounds of those just starting their day, people who nodded and waved freely as she moved along the street, people not yet burdened by their labor.

Crossing the bridge out to the lake, Thera looked out over the rippling gray water and sighed unconsciously. She could see the army of green trees making up the orchard where she and Alistair spent so many afternoons becoming friends. She'd hoped every day since they left that Duncan would send word, at least saying whether Alistair was alive. Before falling ill, Arl Eamon was kind enough to promise sharing any letters when they arrived, but none ever had.

Occasionally word drifted back from a trader or a messenger, and when she was able to corner the individual she always pressed them for news of her friend. It was amusing, how they never were sure which warden she was inquiring about, until she mentioned the rather off sense of humor. She might not be able to see her friend, Thera decided, but she felt in her heart that he was alright.

He'd been gone almost six months to the day; it felt so much longer. She even missed being asked four times a day if his hair still looked right. It was funny, the things one took for granted without realizing. If only their paths had been different or his destiny otherwise...she gave her head a sharp shake to banish the thought. No matter her feelings for Alistair, or how deep their friendship, it seemed destined not to be.

Passing through the main doors of the castle, Thera found the silence which greeted her almost jarring. Normally at such an hour of the morning, servants and merchants would be bustling about their tasks. This morning there was one lone elf girl tidying a small sitting area; she cast Thera tight sideways glances but made no move to greet her. A haughty looking woman entered from the direction of the kitchens, eyed her up and down, and then bolted up the stairs before Thera could call her over.

She loitered in the main hall, unnoticed and virtually alone for almost ten minutes; it would be acceptable for her to simply go in search of the Arl, but not particularly well-mannered. She was just deciding whether to go upstairs or leave when the surly maid returned with a man in tow; Thera was surprised to see that it was not Arl Eamon. Clearly is had been too long since her last visit, if someone she didn't recognize was occupying such a prominent position. The man was young, a shock of black hair drifting down around his ears and slanting, suspicious brows. He was also clad in the blue silk robes of a Circle apprentice; Thera's stomach did an uneasy flip.

"In what way may I assist you?" His tone was officious; it grated in her ears.

Thera decided it was a game she could easily play. "I'm very sorry; I don't remember hearing your name."

One eyebrow arched. "It wasn't given."

She chuckled to herself; surely he didn't think such a cliché response would unbalance her. Thera decided she knew the best tack to take with the man. "Since my mother raised me correctly, I shall give you mine: Thera Agnellis, daughter of Arl Tyaeri."

He was a study in maintaining composure, but she had the satisfaction of seeing in his eyes that he recognized the field had been leveled. There was not, however, a hint of change to his voice. "Jowan, of the Circle."

"Jowan. I am here to see my cousin Eamon; does that put your mind at ease?"

His waxy face seemed to lose a little more color, and Thera was certain a dampness was beading across his brow. "The arl is too ill to receive anyone." This time, his hurried words belied a slight desperation.

"Then I will see the arlessa; all the better reason, in fact."

His chin raised almost imperceptibly. "She is occupied with her husband and has no time, for you or anyone else. On my advice she has bade all visitors return when the arl is well; there is no telling what afflicts him."

Her amusement with their banter was slowly being replaced by genuine worry. Jowan seemed more concerned with posturing than tending his patient.

A troubling thought sprung into her mind. "Where is Connor? If both his parents are indisposed, someone should be looking after him. I'll go speak..."

"No!" The exclamation seemed born of nervousness, but if so, Jowan smoothly covered by appearing annoyed with her. "He is with the arl. The arlessa is with the arl. They are _all_ with the arl, and all _occupied_."

His blanket dismissal put her immediately on guard. "If you don't know what's wrong with Eamon, why are you allowing his wife and young son to sit with him? That seems rather irresponsible, Jowan." She was trying to illicit a response, but Thera saw immediately he wasn't ruffled. Jowan continued coldly staring her down.

"When did the arl take such a turn for the worse?"

He ignored her question, crossing arachnid arms over his chest. "Even as an apprentice I am equipped to employ many types of powerful magic; whatever this is I shall heal him, and anyone else affected."

Calling him irresponsible was merely meant to be provocative; now it seemed prophetic. "Wouldn't it be safer and easier to only heal _one_ patient?"

His dark, suspicious eyes narrowed. "You ask a great many impertinent questions." There was a dangerous edge to his tone.

Thera felt certain that something wasn't right with Jowan; Circle magi could be rough, even a little arrogant, but she had never encountered one so...hostile, so secretive.

"You offer a great many impertinent responses, none of them answers." Patting her satchel, she stepped forward. "I have my herbs and medicines with me. I would like to see Eamon, and figure out if there is anything I can do to help."

This time Jowan didn't bother to hide his expression; he smirked openly, eying her with contempt. "_Help_ him, with your pouches of grass and basilisk-bone dust? Yes, I'm certain that would be _far_ more effective than the skilled abilities of a Circle mage."

He was so arrogant; she wanted to stick him with something sharp. "Doesn't seem to be terribly _effective_ thus far."

His arm shot out, one spindly finger firmly extended. "Get out. Now. I shall have you removed if you resist, on the arlessa's authority."

Thera stood rooted to the spot, while Jowan continued to look puffed up with his spindly finger wavering in the air. She waited, watching until she saw his shoulder sag a little under the prolonged effort of pointing her out. Thera tried to keep her voice steady, with a good measure of menace. "Very well, but I _will_ return. And when I do, it will be with someone who isn't the least bit afraid of that _apostate_ finger of yours." She allowed the implied threat of a Templar visit to hang in the air for a few moments, till she saw his eyes dart away, then spun on her heel and let herself out.

She wondered, heading back across the bridge, if the arl's brother was aware of Jowan's behavior. Bann Teagan was the one person the mage hadn't mentioned, and Thera was certain the bann wouldn't allow such effrontery regardless of what the arlessa commanded. Even so, the bann of Rainesfere was at least a day away and her men would be long in coming; hardly a deterrent to someone as seemingly brazen as Jowan.

Ferelden was at last facing open war fighting the blight; it wasn't a time to have strong men such as Eamon, the king's most trusted advisor, hindered by illness or posturing. Sadly, she mused that such times were usually seen as perfect opportunities for personal gain and exploitation. A Circle mage seemed an unlikely candidate, but every group had their own agenda. Maybe a short message to Teagan wasn't such a bad idea.

If only Alistair were here to help; he could have easily diffused the whole situation. He might not be a templar, but he'd certainly been a promising initiate; at any rate he possessed enough of the training to be a formidable threat to an initiate from the Circle.

Turning, Thera rested arms atop the crumbling wall of the bridge, looking out at nothing in particular. She'd found an increasing number of reasons to need Alistair of late, some legitimate and others...less concrete. The desire in her heart had been glowing embers for a month or so, but it was igniting into a slow blaze she could no longer ignore. When the war against the Darkspawn was over, and the wardens settled somewhere...

Shoving away from the wall, she walked purposefully toward the town, angry at her selfishness. Hadn't she learned the first time to be content with what she had? And what did she think would happen once she found him; that they would have a happy, clandestine friendship? No; there would be no seeking Alistair out, now or later. Instead Thera decided to put her interference to good work, and send Bann Teagan an invitation to Redcliffe.


	20. Ostagar

**Ostagar**

"Light the beacon...light it!" Alistair plunged his sword into the genlock with both hands, the creature's dog-like snout contorting with pain and fury. The muscles in his arms burned, and a good portion of the blood smeared on his armor was not the enemy's. If Aedan didn't ignite the signal fire, the reinforcements wouldn't move in; they would be overrun, both on the battlefield and in the tower.

Duncan had charged them the previous evening with securing the watch tower at Ostagar; Alistair had spent the night moderately annoyed, under the assumption it was yet another tactic to shelter him from the real fighting. Then Duncan had explained that their task would be to light the signal beacon, announcing just the right moment for Teyrn Loghain's forces to sweep in and route the darkspawn, now drawn out into open combat. In the moment it had seemed a little exciting; looking around now, Alistair wondered if the Chantry really had made him crazy.

It felt an eternity passed until, over his own breathless panting, at last the crack of oil and dry tinder reached his ears above the din. Smoke snaked up from the haphazard pile of wood and debris, chased by growing tongues of flame. In seconds it was a roaring inferno, heat waves radiating like water ripples in every direction.

With the way now clear, Alistair ran to gaping hole in the ruins of the tower wall, looking down into the valley. Yelling, snarling and the murderous clash of weapons melded into one low, constant hum. Everywhere Alistair saw men and darkspawn charging through the fray, with no indication that either side held the high ground. At least, not _yet_, he amended hopefully. Aedan joined him, seeming just as eager to behold Teyrn Loghain's reinforcements storming in.

An agonizing moment passed, then two. Alistair could feel Aedan looking to him for reassurance; he offered a confident nod. Loghain was a war hero, a legendary general, and whatever Alistair's personal feelings about the man, he was certain Loghain would take the day. As though the tipping of his head to Aedan had given the cue, a horn sounded on the ridge above the field, causing Alistair to start.

His breath wouldn't come, eyes searching all around without really seeing; Alistair knew he couldn't have heard it correctly. When the sound echoed over the valley again though, the banners of Loghain's forces, barely visible behind a high wall along the hilltop, disappeared from view one by one; it was a call for retreat. The man's xenophobia, his lack of faith in the king, were the price at which he'd sold them all.

The cold realization gripped Alistair's heart; they were being betrayed.

"_No_." The words came as a rough whisper; Alistair's chest wouldn't expand to allow him more. Beside him, Aedan swore and hurled the torch stump.

Looking back down into to the valley, Alistair watched men turn their heads in bewilderment, paused in the thick of the fighting. Some looked up in disbelieving anguish, recognizing the sound for what it was. Worse in Alistair's mind were those who mistook the horn as the signal for a charge, and turned back eagerly to reinforcements that would never come. Some, he noted wretchedly, were already being cut down with the hopeful expression still on their faces.

Alistair smashed his hand full force into the crumbling wall, oblivious to the bloody knuckle prints left on the pale stone. "Loghain, you bastard! You traitor!" He would have sobbed, had the anguish not been so paralyzing. Duncan, his fellow wardens, his _brother_ were all down there; they were all going to die. The scream of impotent rage tore unbidden from his chest at last.

Aedan was pulling at his arm; Alistair hardly registered the desperate tension against his body. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the edge of the fighting, to the swath being cut through the soldiers by the hulking, twisted shape of an ogre. Its clefted, gnarled head jerked in every direction, seeking fresh kills; bodies were flung left and right like trumped chess pieces by its sinewy, hooking arms.

Cailan cried out clear and sure for his men to rally, running forward fearlessly; Alistair could feel his heart break. Stance wide, blade held at the ready, the king waited bravely to strike a blow against the roaring beast. Inhaling, Alistair froze as Cailan swung away; the blow missed.

"You don't want to see this!" Aedan gave his arm another wrenching tug, this time pulling him clear of the wall's opening and any view of the massacre below.

"Fight or flee, we're dead if we stay here Alistair!" The force of his friend's arms ripped Alistair away from the crushing grasp of such a gruesome scene; he ran along in tow toward the stairs. Darkspawn poured from the archway; not four or five, but a dozen, with more yet in sight.

They were overrun, he realized bleakly. In the absence of any reinforcement from ground level, the darkspawn had gone unchecked. Shrugging an aching sword arm, Alistair readied himself. It didn't matter how many there were; he would meet his end as bravely as the men out on the field, fellow warden by his side to the last.

With both hands Alistair launched his blade, relishing the singing of steel as it struck a genlock's breastplate, almost completing an arc through the creatures body. Thick, black blood jetted across his face and hands, painting Aedan to his left with the spray.

Recoiling his leg, Alistair removed the body with a hefty blow of his boot before pivoting deftly to the right on his other foot. Now back to back, he and Aedan side-stepped toward the archway. Two genlocks rushed him, short swords plunging again and again with downward thrusts, as though trying to sew him into his armor with deadly needles. Hands vice-like around the pommel, Alistair fueled each thrust of his blade with his fury, ignoring the tremble of fatigue beginning to spread through his muscles.

Taking both heads with his next blow, he rounded quickly on Aedan to give aid. It was too late; as his companion delivered a high blow to one darkspawn, another jabbed from the side, penetrating the armor just below Aedan's right shoulder. Legs buckling, Aedan doubled halfway over as his attackers closed around.

To their right, a massive hurlock came charging up past his twisted cohorts; Alistair had never been more terrified or disgusted by the appearance of a creature. It appeared as a corpse, a warrior's corpse with the gray skin half-rotted, half mummified. Rather than teeth, it had fangs, a fact revealed by the complete absence of any flesh covering it's mouth. As it's cloudy eyes settled on them, Alistair saw the hungry, malicious glow in its gaze.

Launching into a dead run, the thing caught Aedan broadside with his axe, creasing armor and flesh with one effortless strike ; it was a crippling blow, and the other darkspawn wasted no time in ripping the warden down to the floor.

Giving a scream that felt born of his heart tearing open, Alistair took his own running start into the flood of hissing, seething creatures, aware it was his final act. The hurlock was stomping toward the spot where Aedan had fallen, seemingly unaware of the danger closing in. With a jarring tremor, Alistair guided his sword point home to the side of the hurlock, piercing armor and flesh till his blade found daylight on the other side.

Even as he heard the wet, gritty plunge of the blade through decaying flesh and bone, Alistair knew he wouldn't recover to swing again before the mob overwhelmed him. The penetration of the blade-point below his left shoulder blade burned white-hot for an immeasurably short time before it struck his lung. The second blow, just beside his breastbone, hardly registered before a cold, soothing blackness closed in around the edges of his vision; he welcomed it, letting it pull him effortlessly down into a silent abyss.

**Redcliffe**

Sitting on thefront step of the public house, mending some shirts, Thera listened in the distance to the rhythmic stomp of soldier's feet echoing down the highway. It had become an all-too-familiar sound in Redcliffe.. The Blight had fully erupted, and all the skirmishes and isolated fighting had at last become open war. The king had leveled two decisive victories against the Darkspawn in the Wilds; everyone prayed to the Maker that this last one would route them for good.

Rivan joined her on the step, brushing dark curls back from her face, against the breeze. "A messenger came for the Arl with news of the next battle while you were in the village, love." She paused for a moment, looking confused, then absently waved a hand. "Well, it's the final battle by now; that must be nearly a week ago. Anyhow, he says your friend was still with the Grey Wardens in the Wilds, when he left."

Thera's heart thrilled at the news. Alistair had only just been a worry, and now her mind was at a bit more at ease. She couldn't help but smile. "Did the man say if he'd taken word to the Arl?"

Rivan's head shook slowly. "Turned away at the gate; the Arl is still too ill for visitors. At least when he recovers there'll be good news."

Thera worried her lower lip with her teeth.

She felt Rivan's elbow jab her side gently. "You're family; unlike the rest of us, you can call at the castle." Thera recalled how uncomfortably her last visit had gone. At least Teagan had taken her letter seriously, planning to personally look into the matter of Jowan. Thera's annoyance escaped as a sigh.

"Distant family; and you've never met the Arlessa. My willingness and my ability are not the same thing." Isolde was like the heavens or the oceans, a force upon which time seemed to have no softening effect. She could only imagine how miserable Alistair must have been growing up with that woman.

Rivan rubbed one pointed ear between her thumb and forefinger. "You said that was years ago. Besides, you'll go; you love _him_."

Thera felt the heat in her cheeks. "_Not_ in the way you mean."

With a knowing chuckle, Rivan patted her shoulder. "I worked at the Pearl; it's _never_ the way I mean...not when the wife is around, anyway."

Shaking her head, Thera expelled a dramatic sigh. "If you're trying to shock me, then you're going to be disappointed. Serves you right for wearing it out with your stories about Antiva."

Her friend looked a bit disappointed; one dark eyebrow arched. "I should have spaced them out, perhaps."

Thera indicated with her fingers. "Just a little."

"You'll thank me some day." Rivan grinned, nodding mostly to her self.

Thera waved her hands. "Let's not be too hasty."

Rivan gave a light shrug of her shoulders. "Aida and I are going down to the lake this evening; are you coming?"

Throwing the forgotten shirt back into her basket, Thera gave an absent shake of her head. "I intend to turn in early. I sat up all last night with with the Elory's new baby."

Rivan hopped up, loping down the stairs. "Suit yourself. We'll remember you while we're enjoying ourselves."

"That seems fair. But do you think it's wise..." She lowered her voice, out of lack of necessity. "...with the Blight." Rivan had already skipped too far down the street to hear her; Thera shrugged. Gathering the unwieldy basket of shirts, she went back into the house, sore feet climbing the narrow stairs gingerly.

Alone in the room for a change, she settled cross legged on her palette and reached into her pocket. Her fingers searched eagerly past the crushed leaves and bits of thread until they found the small twisted length.

Pulling it out, she ran her thumb back and forth over the narrow black braid, no longer than her pinkie. Time and touch had roughened the once lustrous strands, splitting them here and there. The blue thread at each end was faded, fraying and a little dirty, but she hardly cared. She stroked the few inches of intertwined hair across her cheek, trying hard to force her memory.

In her heart, all she could see was Alistair. It had been hard enough not knowing how he'd fared all these months; that he'd faced the most recent battle had her anxious, terrified. There would be no resting until she could hear he was safe. The old memories, it seemed, were being replaced with the new.

"I'm sorry, Aldan. I'll never forget you, but someone else needs me now." She pressed the braid to her lips. "I love you."

Rocking up onto her knees before the fireplace, she held Aldan's hair aloft reverently for a moment, then cast it into the small tongues of flame. As the strands were consumed like a small fuse, she tried to suppress the conflict warring in her heart. The tears she'd expected didn't come; at last Thera lay down on top of the blankets, curled tightly on her side and fell asleep.


	21. A Shred of Hope

Standing on the banks of the wide, swampy lake before Flemeth's hut, Alistair stared back toward the battlefield. In his mind, he willed again and again for someone to appear on the horizon; Cailen, Duncan, another warden, a lowly foot soldier. He waited there, aching desperately for some sign that all was not lost. When he'd first come to, Flemeth had broken the news that he was likely the soul survivor of Ostagar; he'd raged against her bitter declaration for the better part of an hour, accusing her of ignorance, of lying. In between, Alistair found himself wracked with fits of uncontrollable, anguished sobbing. His mentor, his brother, his wardens...all wiped out by a single man's treachery. And now, the Blight would sweep across Ferelden, unchecked. He would lose his land as well. Flemeth's voice from behind him cut into his bleak thoughts like a cold knife. "See! Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man." Heels turning in the mud, Alistair came around face to face with something he believed impossible; it was Aedan, alive and seeming none the worse for wear, save the shadows beneath his eyes. "You're...you're alive. Hah...I thought you were dead for sure." Maybe they were _both _dead, he mused, suspended somewhere in the fade; Alistair had to fight hard to check the urge to pat hands over Aedan's body. Aedan made a small bow in Flemeth's direction. "I'm not, thanks to Flemeth. Besides, it takes more than a few darkspawn to kill me."

Alistair felt a buzzing grow between his temples, behind his eyes. Everyone was gone, they _should_ be dead. "Ugh. This doesn't seem real." Nodding, Aedan's eyes dropped to the slimy ground beneath their feet.

Slowly, Alistair gave his head a sobering shake. "If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be _dead_ on top of that tower."

Showing her umbrage, Flemeth turned fully toward them. "Do not talk about me as though I am not present, lad."

He felt a little sheepish. "But you've never told us your name...I just assumed, that is..."

"Names are pretty, but useless, like some people's tongues. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, as you have been; I suppose it will do."

Alistair repressed a shudder. "_The_ Flemeth...from the legends? You truly are the Witch of the Wilds."

Despite her tone, Flemeth didn't appear offended; Alistair wasn't sure she was capable of it. "And what is that supposed to mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well."

Aedan nodded his agreement slowly. "Flemeth; very old and very powerful, if the legends are to be believed."

"Those are relative things, but compared to you, yes...on both counts."

A measure of helplessnes rose up in Alistair's chest. "Then why didn't you save Duncan? He is...was our leader." Duncan's life was worth ten of his own; at least then the wardens and the kingdom would have a chance at being rebuilt.

To her credit, Flemeth appeared truly sympathetic for a moment. "I am sorry for your Duncan, but your grief must come later...in the dark shadows before you take your vengeance, as my mother once said. Duty must come now."

"There are none of us left to face the Darkspawn, Flemeth. What do you suggest?" Aedan was truly seeking advice; Alistair hoped sincerely she had any to give.

"It has always been the Grey Warden's duty to unite the lands against the Blight; or did that change when I wasn't looking? Surely there are allies you can call on, to give aid in your time of need."

"We had nearly defeated it! Why would Loghain do this!" Alistair grappled with his frustration and confusion.

"Now that is a good question. Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he thinks the Blight is an army he can out-maneuver; perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the _true_ threat."

Her meaning was terribly clear. "The arch demon."

"Whether or not it is truly a tainted old-god, history says the arch demon is a fearsome and immortal thing; only fools ignore history."

Aedan looked to him with absolute confidence; Alistair hated it. The last time, he'd been reassuring his friend that Loghain was coming, even as the traitor quit the field. "Where do we go Alistair? We must have an ally."

Alistair thought of the king, of the arl that raised him, all he would lose to the Blight, and suddenly an idea sprang forth. "Arl Eamon...he would _never_ stand for this. He is a good man, and Cailan's uncle. He wasn't at Ostagar; he still has all his men."

"We'll need more than one arl's men; there has to be someone else to join the fight."

He really wasn't thinking clearly, Alistair realized. "Of course; the treaties! The dwarves, elves, even mages are bound to aid the Grey Wardens during a blight."

Crossing arms in a self-satisfied manner, Flemmeth nodded slowly. "This Arl Eamon...Dwarves, elves, mages...sounds like an _army_ to me." She straightened, squaring bent shoulders. "So you are set then, ready to be Gray Wardens." Alistair felt grateful to Flemeth; she'd given him a little hope.

Morrigan joined them beside the lake, clearly ready to hurry them along. "The stew is bubbling mother; shall we have two guests for dinner or..." Alistair found her narrowed eyes resting squarely in him, "...None?"

Flemmeth chose to ignore her daughter's words, instead turning to fully face both him and Aedan; Alistair wondered if she were about to claim repayment for saving their lives.

"The Gray Warden's are leaving, girl, and you shall be joining them."

Morrigan clucked her tongue with mock sympathy. "Such a shame. And here I...what?"

"You heard me girl. The _last_ time I looked you had ears."

Aedan stepped forward; dreading what was to come, Alistair braced.

"I think that's an excellent idea. Morrigan is a skilled guide and could make a formidable ally on our journey to Redcliffe."

"Have _I_ no say in this?" He might not want her along, but Alistair enjoyed watching Morrigan rankle a little.

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years; here is your chance."

Flemeth's tone told everyone present the discussion was closed. Alistair was surprised by how quickly she turned on him. "As for _you_, wardens...consider this repayment for your lives."

Unease was growing in the pit of his stomach; Alistair looked between Flemeth and Aedan, concerned. "Not to...look a gift horse in the mouth, but won't this add to our problems?" He pointed to Morrigan, realizing it was bad manners when it was too late. "Outside the Wilds, she's an apostate."

There was a playful light in Flemeth's eyes. "If you do not wish help from us..._illegal mages_, perhaps I should have left you to die on that tower, lad."

Her logic, he decided, was unquestionable. "Point taken."

Flemeth turned back to her daughter; Alistair found himself a little touched by the scene. "Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the Darkspawn; they need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight...even I."

Her face was stern as she addressed them once more, and though Alistair didn't particularly care for Morrigan, he respected her mother's command. "And you, wardens...do _you_ understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world; I do this because you _must_ succeed."

Obviously resigned to the task, Morrigan addressed them jointly. "Let me gather my things; then I suggest we head for Lothering. 'Tis a small place, a key stop on your imperial highway. However, it will be an excellent place to gather information and supplies."

Then she addressed Aedan alone; "Or if you prefer, I will simply be your...silent guide." She was probing for something, Alistair felt certain, but his companion remained coolly diplomatic. "Let's get underway." Whatever she'd been looking for, Morrigan's abrupt turn told him she hadn't found it.

As they made their way out of the Wilds, avoiding the source of the Darkspawn eruption, Alistair found himself increasingly curious about Morrigan. She must have caught his eyes on her a time or two; finally she sighed, stepping over a fallen tree, and turned back. "Something weighs on your mind, warden?"

"No! No. Well, yes. It's just that...are you really Flemeth's daughter?"

She seemed strangely relieved at the question. "T'was she that raised me, and thus I consider her my mother, born from her womb or not. Tis what you meant, yes?"

Aedan loped up the slope behind them. "I think what Alistair means is that it's difficult to imagine her..." He trailed off; Alistair was glad someone else was faring awkwardly in conversation or a change.

"Young, married, pregnant? Who said she was any of these things? I certainly did not."

Aedan's curiosity was clearly piqued by her declaration. "Have you ever been outside the Wilds?"

Moving aside some brush, Morrigan nodded. "Now and then, to the village I mentioned. They have a great many shops for travelers; I have gone on trips to purchase goods for Mother. I would go more often were it not for the town's Chantry; it makes the villagers particularly..._intolerant_. It was..._interesting_ to observe the people there; for the most part they simply stared, and reminded me that I was an outsider."

Now Alistair found his own curiosity stirring. "A chantry, and they never once, in all this time thought you might be a witch?" Lothering must have particularly dull Templars.

The amusement in her voice was unfettered. "Of course they did! They even called out their Templars once. The found...nothing. Tis of little consequence; they do not deter me from what I seek."

"And that is..." Alistair hesitated to wonder.

"What I want is to see mountains. I wish to _witness_ the ocean and and step into its waters...I want to _experience_ a city, rather than see it in my mind."

He admired Morrigan's desires, but Alistair reminded himself they were just that; Morrigan was with them to help, but also to satisfy her own needs and her mother's whim. Any real trust for her would be a long time in coming; considering the way Aedan contemplated Morrigan's back with narrowed eyes, he was having similar reservations.


	22. Evil in the Darkness

It was pitch dark when the sound brought her awake. At first she thought the scream was leftover from her nightmare; then it sounded again, followed by several masculine cries of alarm. The fire had died in the grate and she could make out nothing around her. She whispered into the dark of the room. "Rivan, what is that? Aida? Hello?"

Getting onto her hands and knees she scooted to Rivan's palette; it was unoccupied. There was no sound in the room save her own breathing. Fumbling for the door, she stepped out into the dim hallway. Cries were echoing up from the street, but the house seemed to be empty.

Reaching the first floor, Thera found it deserted; not even Jeleth the proprietor was there. As she pulled at the front door, something slammed into it from the other side, toppling her to the hard wood floor. Jeleth practically fell inside, face contorted in terror. His eyes darted around the room, and for several minutes Thera could tell he didn't see her, or perhaps any of his surroundings. Finally Jeleth's breath came under control, and his eyes locked on her as though she'd just entered the room. "Thera! By the Maker, the blight is upon us! We'll be eaten alive!" He shuffled backwards, spider-like on hands and feet to rest his back against the wall.

For a brief moment she wondered if he'd overindulged his taste for ale. It had happened more than once since he'd begun shamelessly pursuing the new barmaid at the tavern. The screams and wailing from outside, however, reminded her that he wasn't alone in being afraid.

"Jeleth, what is going on out there? Why is everyone panicking?"

"The dead...they're everywhere in the streets. The road to the castle is covered...people are being dragged into the shadows." He fell forward, head onto his knees beside, sobbing through incoherent pleading.

Despite the ripple of fear through her heart, Thera felt drawn to the chaos outside. Undead were not exactly the same thing as darkspawn, and there were no explanations for why either would emerge suddenly in Redcliffe. Reaching over Jeleth's hunched, quivering frame, she felt along his belt for the leather grip of his dagger, pulling it free.

The streets had grown quiet, and Thera heard no more screams as she stepped slowly and deliberately through the shadows alongside the public house. Just at the corner of the building she tripped hard, pitching to the ground, then winced as the small gravel atop the road-stones abraded her palms. Turning carefully on her knees, Thera pressed her hands tentatively here and there in the inky blackness, searching for the offending rock or stick. She recoiled when her own fingers came into contact with the cold, lifeless ones attached to the arm on which she'd tripped. Even more horrifying, she realized, was that the arm no longer belonged to anything. Scrambling back on hands and knees, she stood and stumbled back against the wall.

There was not a trace of anyone whole, living or dead, until she was halfway to the castle-road. Under the lamplight she spied the first abomination, it's yellow skin mottled with bloody patches. It stood at the corner by the smithy, listing a little from side to side like some undead sentry standing guard over two mutilated and otherwise unrecognizable bodies. To its left was what she assumed had once been a single person, now reduced to a wet mass of entrails and bone.

Looking once more at the living horror, naked and rotting, she could see no sign that it had ever been truly alive. These creatures weren't darkspawn as Jeleth thought, and they weren't buried dead being raised up; there really weren't any buried dead to speak of in Redcliffe. These things were being created by some terrible magic, dark souls ripped from the Fade.

The first horror was joined by another, twitching and sniffing about for a victim. They weren't the mindless thralls of which she'd heard tale, shambling around aimlessly only to attack whatever came easily into range. The creatures before her seemed aware, alert; there would be no sneaking past them. For now, the best she could do would be to wait in the cellar of he public house and hope that daylight would drive them off or provide some advantage.

On shaking legs, Thera slipped back around the corner of the building behind her, then stopped. Up the street the way she'd come, five or six more undead were making their way in her direction, kicking at doors and windows, smelling like wolves at the openings for flesh as they went. Going home was impossible, but she couldn't exactly stand there and wait them out. Jeleth had said the road to the castle wasn't any better, and the two undead she'd originally seen had her believing nothing in that direction had changed. Her mind raced frantically for an idea; that only left the chantry, across the courtyard.

Turning, squinting into the dark, she looked directly at the lights of the tavern. If she ran straight down the middle for it, then turned at the last moment, she might get past the devouring corpses. Getting into the chantry before they caught her, she realized with a groan, would be the real trick. Untying her over-skirt, she let it fall to the dirt, pushing it aside with her foot. Wiping the sweat from her palm, she took a better grip on the dagger, fixed her eyes on the tavern, and concentrated. From all over the village she could hear the sounds of wood cracking, glass being smashed, and in the distance a fading shriek.

From directly behind she was beginning to discern the wet, ragged breathing of the abominations moving down the road; there was no more time to wait. The tension in her muscles built to a charge; her heart thundered as she tensed every inch of her frame. Without another thought, she launched past the building and into the courtyard. Legs pumped up and down furiously; she tried not to make a single other sound, not until she reached the halfway point. By then the streak of motion she created had attracted plenty of attention, and a sticky sort of pounding began to grow behind her. Deciding the element of surprise was lost, Thera began to scream as much as burning lungs would allow. "Open the chantry; open the doors! Open the doors _quickly_!"

The stairs were the hardest; her boot caught twice, and the second time she was sure of falling backwards into the monsters at her heels. Her courage faltered as she reached the top step and saw that the doors were still shut tight. Just as her hand reached for the steel ring, the massive panel swung open and a large hand crushed around her wrist, making her drop the dagger as it yanked her inside. The slamming of the door came so close behind her head that it left her ears ringing.

Teagan stood before her, wide-eyed as the horde beat against the door at her back.

"What in the name of the Maker are you doing out there?"

_What was she doing? _Her curiosity at Jeleth's story no longer seemed a reasonable explanation. "I don't know, but the road to the highway is lost."

"Don't tell me that; I sent a runner to the watchpost less than half an hour ago."

She recalled the screaming she'd heard off in the distance. "I don't think he made it. It's safe to assume that, until daylight or until someone comes looking, we're on our own."

Dejected, Teagan turned from her, walking slowly into the knave of the chantry. She saw twenty or so other people huddled together, tired and terrified. Searching the faces brought a growing hopelessness; Rivan and Aida were not among the refugees.

"Has word been sent to castle?"

Teagan rounded on her, furious, his finger pointing accusingly at nothing in particular. "You can't be serious. My brother is practically on his deathbed and that..." He closed his eyes, seeming to center himself, "That _woman _can't be bothered to answer my call for help."

Glancing out one of the high windows, Thera thought about his words for a moment, troubled. "Is Eamon truly dying?"

Teagan raked fingers through his hair. "No. I don't know. He's certainly not getting better. Everything is being done to heal him; I've sent men to every corner of Ferelden to find a cure. At least for now he's not getting worse. When I can get back into the castle, I assure you that someone will pay dearly for whatever is happening to my brother."

Thera felt grateful once again that she'd trusted her gut and warned Teagan about Jowan; Eamon would already be dead, otherwise. Even so, she felt a little sorry for the mage; rather than turn him over to the Templars, Isolde had the guards torture him for days until he confessed to poising the arl on the orders of Terhyn Loghain. That had earned him another few nights of brutalization; no one believed a hero such as the Teyrhn was capable of such duplicity. Thera remembered his interrogation too well to be so dismissive.

With no moon in the sky it was hard to tell, but Thera was sure it must be well past midnight. "What is your plan?"

Teagan massaged his forehead a moment, then glanced around the chantry. "I have some men; a few Templars and castle soldiers. We're organizing a rescue and reconnaissance party even now. Everyone else will rest here till morning; then we can see about driving off this horde. Something tells me it is not to be an isolated event, and we won't have the men to keep up a defense for long without help from the castle."

Thera glanced past him, at the frightened mass of villagers, searching for inner strength. "If you can clear the road, someone should take these people out of here tomorrow after sunrise."

"I cannot spare a man; are you volunteering?" She knew Teagan well enough to recognize that his sarcasm wasn't meant as a personal affront. She shrugged nonchalantly. "If that's what it takes; I'm frightened, but not so frightened that I'll wait here like a snared nug."

He looked dubious. "Have you any skill with a bow or blade? You may encounter more of these things, and darkspawn are a very real threat."

Thera remembered the abandoned dagger on the steps. "I have a little hand to hand skill. Though, I'm am an eager student when it comes to advice."

It was readily apparent by his frown that the idea was not pleasing to Teagan. "Your upper body strength is ill suited to a large blade; we'll have to hope someone here has a lightweight weapon. Your mother will not be pleased by this."

"We have to do the best with what the Maker provides, even if it's terrifyingly inadequate. Let's just hope no one tells her."

Teagan seemed to soften at her self-deprecation. "I am certain you'll do just fine. Come morning, we'll see determine the safety of the main road. However, I want you to wait a day, maybe two; we should be certain this is worth covering open ground unprotected. If so, you'll go with the others to the watch post; it's well defended and they can send out word for help."

Thera's heart sank. "I don't think there's anyone to come; every man save Recliffe's was committed at Ostagar." As Teagan spoke, Thera noticed he averted his gaze. "Not every arl was fully engaged; word arrived that Howe has men moving south."

Why did he sound so despondent? An involuntary chill ran up her back. "I would be cautious; it's more likely he will exploit the situation than aid it."

The creases around Teagan's eyes deepened, his expression more harried. "You've heard the rumors, too."

"Little more than town gossip. Not a stretch to believe, that he would attack when Cousland was at his most defenseless."

Teagan glanced at the villagers depending on him. "Well, let us hope a better solution presents itself. Hopefully in daylight we can find the source of this evil"

She followed his eyes, working up the courage to ask the question weighing on her since arriving. "Do you recall seeing a dark haired elf girl, or a young blond woman with a scar on her cheek?"

He glanced around as if taking mental note. "No elf-kind; I wouldn't have notice a scar. That doesn't mean the people you're looking for aren't taking shelter at home."

Taking deep breaths she tried to push away the anguish beginning to twist in her chest. "No, they weren't at home. They'd been out at the lake, so..."

Teagan rested firm hands on her shoulders. "Thera... those still on the street, even some inside houses and shops ..." His fingers gently squeezed her upper arms. "I am sorry for your friends. I hope the Maker is with them. If I find them out there, any signs..."

Nodding, she threw arms around her cousin. "Teagan...be safe." With a gentle pat to her head, he nodded and was gone.

Her throat and chest ached with repressed tears, eyes burning from lack of sleep. Settling on the cold stone floor, back leaned against the wall, Thera tried to ignore the sounds from outside. Instead, she thought hard about Alistair, willing him to hear her silent plea for help.


	23. The Darkest Hour

Three terrifying nights had passed since she first fled to the chantry; every night had been worse than the last, with undead flooding the castle road and swarming the town. There had been little to eat, and no one slept once the sun set. Thera suspected Teagan, distracted with leading the assault, had only relented on the third day and allowed them to go because some of the villagers were beginning to show signs of madness.

She and the refugees were in sight of the watchpost along the imperial highway when Thera spotted the two riders; they were far off yet, coming in from the north in the direction of Gherlen's Pass. Despite the late afternoon sun, a chill ran up her back.

Shrugging off the cold, Thera chided herself that it was probably nothing, more than likely someone coming to check on Redcliffe and possibly solicit aid for Teagan. Their small band wouldn't gain the watch-post before the riders caught up, so she steeled herself against nagging worry until more concrete answers could be had.

Staring across the fields rolling out in front of her, Thera tried to think of anything but the previous night. Only once before had she stayed up to see the sunrise; it was the day her father was to duel Aldan. All night she'd waited to hear that things had come out alright.

Not unlike the previous night in the chantry, she mused. She and Teagan had sat silently in the knave before the night assault, apart from the other villagers and the few soldiers and Templars; praying that daylight would provide an advantage, praying for all they'd lost at Ostagar. She'd dozed off sometime just after midnight, when Teagan organized the men and left, only to start from a horrible nightmare. By around eleven that morning Teagan sent word back that the main road was clear, and that anyone going should do so.

Despite gentle encouragement from neighbors, some people chose to return home. For their sake she hoped the attacks were finally over. As she'd walked through town, swaths of blood caked the dust on the road anywhere her eyes came to rest; bare legs protruded from a doorway, pale and motionless. Bodies of the slain undead were piled in small heaps here and there, waiting to be burned, already emanating a rotting odor beneath midday sun. The whole time she looked, and tried _not_ to look, for Aida and Rivan. In her heart she wanted to be sure of their fate; still it was easier to assume the worst than come face to face with the evidence.

The sway of the field grass was almost hypnotic; she tried to let it blank the thoughts in her mind, but to no avail. Something else was weighing there, just as heavy as the atrocity in Redcliffe; the word echoed in her mind over and over, the same one that had woken her from her nightmares: _Ostagar_. Her heart ached with worry for Alistair; Thera simply couldn't shake the ominous pressure in her chest.

The riders bore down on them now, speeding as they descended into the wide gully of an old gravelly river bed just ahead. As the men came up the other side, she made out what she'd hoped not to see; they wore the badges of Arl Howe. The first rider galloped in dangerously close, obviously trying to intimidate, and whirled his horse. "Well, _what_ is this?"

She already felt annoyed by his cavalier manner. "We're wandering Andrastians from Redcliffe." It was almost amusing that he actually squinted at the rag-tag band behind her for a moment, determining the truth. His companion was the one to speak. "You know, the Maker punishes girls who blaspheme the prophet."

She let her eyes move slowly between the two. "Perhaps he already has. You come to Redcliffe on some business?" The younger, more gaunt-looking soldier piped up, clearly pleased with his cleverness. "Nothing of _your_ business."

"I am Arl Tyaeri's daughter; I _make_ it my business."

His older, more hawkish counterpart was less jovial. "If that's so, then why are you not aware Badren is under the rule of Arl Taran now? Not that it matters, after his participation at Ostagar."

It was an unexpected blow; her mind raced for a persuasive lie. "My brother is, as yet, unproven._ I _demand the respect owed to my family through the legacy of my father."

"Your brother will prove himself by pledging loyalty to the regent, same as Guerrain when we get to Redcliffe."

A coldness seeped into her chest. "Regent; what regent?"

"Teyrn Loghain has proclaimed himself regent, for the safety of his daughter Anora and her armies. All the arls will swear their allegiance to him."

Fingers of her nightmare crept up her back. "I don't understand; where is the king?"

The young hot-head spit. "_Dead_. Betrayed by the Grey Wardens at Ostagar."

Something was wrong; very, very wrong; this was why Teagan refused to look at her when she'd mentioned the army. He must have already known the outcome. "And why do soldiers of _Arl_ Howe come to demand fealty on behalf of the teyrn?"

It was the cold, older knight who replied, his deep voice heaped with condescension. "Arl Howe is the teryn's _most_ loyal ally. He has been granted many... _privileges_ in return for his support."

His emphasis of the word _privileges _unsettled her stomach; it was time to move on, quickly. She had no intention of giving any clue that Redcliffe was weakened at the moment. "Arl Eamon has been indisposed of late, but I believe you'll find him ready to speak with you."

The older knight glared down at her stonily, wolfish gaze searching her face, and the faces of the other refugees. His voice was flat as he spoke. "I am glad to hear it. Naturally we will escort all of you back to the village."

His tone was hard and suspicious; he obviously hadn't liked her challenging attitude, and now seemed concerned about letting her go. "No thank you. Once we've gained the road, we'll consider turning back."

His smile was skeletal, and didn't quite reach his eyes. "I must insist. I could not leave a lady such as yourself out here on these defenseless plains." She watched the second man, smirking and snickering over his superior's shoulder; something told Thera not to underestimate either of them.

Raising a hand above her shoulder, she signaled the others that they were moving. "I am fine. All of us are. Best of luck in Redcliffe." She took several determined steps, meaning to pass the captain by.

He whirled his horse again, blocking her path. "One of the powers granted by the teryn to Arl Howe was that of _correcting_ subversive attitudes. Perhaps a lesson in the teryn's ruling philosophy is in order... for all of you."

The arrogance and malice in his eyes as he slipped from the horse's back made Thera want to give him ground, but she stood firm. _Stand up for yourself_, she chastised furiously. "I am the sister of Arl Taran, a favorite of the Bannorn; you would be a fool to make such an enemy for your lord."

He was closing on her, armor clanking with one stalking predatory step at a time. "The Bannorn; a joke. A rabble of arrogant mud-dwellers clawing for meaningless positions. And as for your _brother, _if he lives_, _or any other arl...if they cannot be brought into line, they will be rendered irrelevant."

The captain was faster than she expected; his hands came down hard on her shoulders as a knee dug deep into her belly. The air forced its way up past her diaphragm; spots danced across her dimmed vision as her back contacted with the unyielding ground. His fingers were working deftly to loosen his codpiece; in his creased face she saw almost no emotion, save a little contempt. None of the villagers came forward to help her; nor would they, she realized. They were commoners, servants of a sort, trained to be obedient to their noble masters no matter what; it was what kept them alive.

The knight stood over her, menacing. "I will teach you the price for arrogance against Teyrn Loghain and his favorites." She tried to use her hands to scoot back, but his boot came down on her chest, pinning her against the rough grass and crushing the air from her chest; Thera began to feel real panic.

"Let this be a reminder that those who are steadfast and loyal are rewarded, and also that the order of Ferelden has changed. Those in power take what they want by right, and it is to be given freely and without haughty ingratitude."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the younger knight dismount, moving in eagerly. _Waiting for his turn_, Thera realized with disgust, obviously cut from the same cloth as his commander. Above her, the captain removed his boot from atop her ribs, planting one foot on each side of her before dropping his weight to straddle her legs.

With cold detachment he began yanking up her skirt; only when she grabbed the hem to struggle against him did she remember Teagan's dagger. His friend was charging over to restrain her; it would have to be quick. Reaching past his thigh she grabbed for the top of the hilt inside her high boot; it slid free of the long sheath with a firm tug that her assailant obviously mistook for struggling.

Steeling herself, biting down on her tongue till the flesh gave, Thera jerked her arm back and drove the large knife in a forward arc, planting it in the side of the man's throat. The act was more shocking than she'd anticipated; involuntarily she jerked her arm back, pulling the blade free. Blood sprayed out in ghastly rooster tails timed to his pulse, spattering her face and chest as he grabbed helplessly at the wound. He fixed her with wide, accusing eyes; unformed words came out as a spongy rasp for only a moment before his body toppled sideways and grew still. Screams and shouting rose up from the refugees, and someone in the back began running; soon they were all fleeing down the slope toward the watch tower, driven like a whip by their panic.

Rolling away, onto her side, Thera wiped the blood from her eyes. The dead man's younger, weaselly companion stood frozen only a few feet away. She had never killed anyone before; with sick reluctance, Thera realized if she let the soldier go free, Redcliffe would become a scapegoat for Arl Howe's rage and depravity. Worse, he would have license to abuse as he pleased under the guise of vengeance. Teagan had said Eamon wasn't getting any better, and the alressa showed no aptitude for governance. Redcliffe would fall, and Eamon would likely be killed.

The soldier seemed to realize what she was about just as Thera's fingers curled around the dagger and her body launched forward. Abject cowardice overtook him; he stumbled, turned and fled despite having the upper hand and greater skill. The sudden approach caused his horse to shy, and he struggled in trying to mount; with all the effort she could muster Thera threw herself onto his back, recalling what Elmet had taught her years before.

Both her arms snaked around the soldier's neck; his screams and pleading rang loudly in her ears as she embraced him tightly, cheek pressed to the back of his sweaty head. Taking a moment to steel herself for what came next, Thera immediately regretted the pause; he'd turned the long, ragged horseshoe pick from the saddle bag into a makeshift shiv. As his hand twisted back, the iron nail ripped through the soft flesh to the right of her belly button, causing Thera to embrace the man more tightly, frozen by the searing pain radiating up her side.

He was struggling now, wriggling side to side, and Thera's foot barely found purchase over his boot in the stirrup; if she didn't gain her wits, Thera knew her adversary would gain the upper hand, likely killing her with a lot less second-guessing than she had done. With a massive inhalation to clear the agony from her brain, Thera asserted what she was about to do was necessary, and pulled her arm hard across the soldier's throat in one long, calculated stroke. She tried to ignore the wet sound of flesh resisting blade as her arm worked to complete its arc, fingers growing slippery with the hot blood running from the soldier's throat. The begging, and the struggling stopped; his grip on the saddle went limp, body sliding to the ground and sending her sprawling hard against the earth, fighting for a breath. The horse reared up, terrified, then thunderously galloped off into the gully.

Rolling over, Thera saw the villagers closing in on the watch post. Crawling a few feet forward, toward nothing in particular, she clutched at her stomach and vomited. The coppery taste of blood swirled in her mouth where she'd bit her tongue; she could smell the metallic scent of more, hers and someone else's, rising off her clothes. Doubling over, she groaned as another wave of nausea gripped her, the seizing muscles tearing at her wound. She wanted to fall forward on the grass and sob, to beg the Maker's forgiveness, to run after the others to the tower and hide.

There would be no indulging those whims, Thera realized numbly; the cold burn in her side was spreading, settling in her fingers and toes. If she didn't move now, Thera knew the birds would make a meal of her by sundown. The soft stamping of hooves behind her crept through the haze of her consciousness; Teagan should be warned, and with the other horse she could be back in Redcliffe well before sundown. Ripping up a tuft of grass, she scrubbed at her mouth and took a deep breath. There would be time later; time to feel regret and disgust and sadness. For now she had to gather her wits and focus to stay alive.

Stumbling up, Thera gasped as the wet crust around her wound separated. She cautiously approached the horse, weaving, ignoring the lifeless body near it's hind quarters. Holding out the back of her trembling hand, Thera closed the distance as casually as could be managed. The animal whinnied, then shied away at the smell of blood. "Come on. You're so beautiful; don't be scared."

Thera tried to iron out her trembling voice to be as soothing as possible, fishing in the depth of a pocket for the rosehips she'd taken from the chantry. She could only feel three; hopefully, it would be enough to win the animal over. Palming the fat, gummy pods, she held them out. The horse hesitated, then leaned forward to wiggle it's lips against her hand, taking the offering. As its teeth mashed up the nearly insignificant treat, she placed a foot gently in the stirrup and swung over, crying out loudly enough to startle the poor creature. He bucked and shook for a moment as Thera weakly stroked his mane, then grew still, gently shuffling in place.

She was not an experienced rider, and it took a moment for them to get a feel for one another. At last the horse conceded, and with a firm tug on the reigns she pointed him back south; nausea welled up in her throat, aggravated by a sparkling at the corners of her vision. Struggling to dig her heels in, Thera found herself unable to tense her muscles effectually enough to spur the massive animal on. Then, she could no longer recall the intention behind her attempts. A small cry in the dark recesses of her brain said she should be panicked, terrified by the gray haze overtaking everything around her, but after a moment Thera could no longer comprehend the warning. Gentle, invisible arms seemed to reach up from the ground; Thera drew in a small, soothing breath and allowed herself to slide like a millstone from the back of the horse into blackness.


	24. Lothering

"Keep that mangy thing _away_ from me, if you please."

Alistair was torn as to Morrigan's feelings on the Mabari ; he wasn't sure if she really hated it, or just that Aedan seemed to like the dog better than her. For his part, Alistair loved the ugly thing; it had already proved a dependable ally in two small skirmishes on the way to Lothering. Smirking, he decided he _definitely_ liked it better than Morrigan.

For his part, Aedan lifted one eyebrow sardonically. "You hurt his feelings, Morrigan."

"Don't tell me you expect me to believe it has..._feelings_."

Stopping short on the road, Aedan turned and crossed his arms, as if challenged. "I'll have you know that back in Highever, Dog showed plenty of feelings..." He gave the panting mass a mock glare. "Most of them based on self-interest."

The dog yelped as if injured by the words, ducking its head; Alistair, bringing up the rear, didn't bother to suppress his grin. Morrigan's obvious irritation at the jests only fueled his desire to antagonize her.

"_You_ run around in the Wilds for days on end and no one says _you're _ mangy. Dog's not mangy...he's cute!" With a happy, approving bark the mabari made a lap around him, barely letting Alistair's hand graze his coarse back before bounding back to the head of the party.

"Are you implying that streaking about through the Wilds makes one...cute?"

"Not _everyone_." The steel in Morrigan's gaze as she glanced back over her shoulder could have cut him in half; her eyes raked up and down over him disdainfully. "Yes...I see your point."

She was beautiful, Alistair conceded, but dangerous too. She also had a knack for pointed insults, provoking all his insecurities the way that so many in Redcliffe had; it was a practiced sort of contempt that left him ashamed, uncomfortable. Alistair felt they just couldn't trust her, and the minute they met with Eamon, he hoped they could send her packing straight back to Flemeth and her swamp-hut.

As they gained the top of a slight incline, following the imperial highway where it crossed the river Drakon, Alistair caught his first glimpse of Lothering to the north. He saw at once Morrigan had been apt in the description she'd offered as they'd crossed the Wilds; the place was little more than an overgrown supply outpost. One entire section of the town was a tent city; there were a good measure of simple thatched houses dotting the fields, the stalls and shops intermixed without rhyme or reason, wherever the owner saw fit to set up. It was a precarious life, depending entirely on the trade of travelers and armies to survive; given the location, under usual conditions Alistair thought it must have been fairly lucrative, if rough.

Upon crossing the debris-littered bridge, though, Alistair could see the conditions were anything but _usual_... Half-packed wagons sat unattended, blocking off alleys; ragged people huddled in doorways, tucked into themselves, eyes darting nervously. Some of the low buildings were already boarded over, piles of anything readily on-hand used to block doors and create barricades.

"It's just a guess, but I'm thinking everyone in Lothering is aware of the approaching darkspawn horde."

He heard Morrigan's un-ladylike snicker all the way at the back. "Now we have a dog; and Alistair is _still_ the stupidest member of the party."

"That was sarcasm; now who's stupid?"

The dismissive manner in which she turned away told Alistair she clearly didn't believe he could mean her.

Aedan turned back, facing them both fists resting on hips; Alistair thought his companion looked uncomfortably like a templar who'd been his teacher upon first arriving at the monastery.

"Can you two behave long enough to go into the inn and get some supplies? If not, you can sit outside on the bench."

Unknowingly, Aedan had hit upon what Alistair considered the worst possible punishment. "_Oh_ no; not doing that. No more benches. All done." Two heads shaking in unison told Alistair his companions could never grasp his aversion to waiting on a bench. "Lets just get what we need and move along; right now even Orlais isn't far enough from what we just left behind."

Turning his head to stare south a moment, Aedan nodded slowly, almost absently; Alistair realized he was probably thinking of his brother, wondering. Then, Aedan gave broad shoulders a slow flex, putting Alistair in mind of a large bird of prey adjusting heavy wings. "Well put; let's not waste any time."

The moment they stepped inside the shadowy, dank hall of the tavern, Alistair realized they were in trouble. Two men immediately turned from the bar, detecting their entrance over the dull murmur of voices, the clank of glassware and the heavy thudding of feet on the floorboards. The pair of soldiers weren't just curious about their entrance; Alistair thought the men had been expecting them.

Aedan must have sensed it, too. He stopped their party only a few steps inside the narrow doorway, forcing their overly-curious companions to come across the wide main hall to meet them. It offered time to size up their opponents, but also to notice that there were several other soldiers interspersed through the small crowd of patrons, trying to blend in. If it wasn't an ambush, Alistair decided, it was close.

"Well, look what we have here...I think we've just been blessed." The larger soldier swaggered forward with a little drunkenness and a good measure of bravado, giving Alistair a decent glimpse at his armor. "Uh oh. Loghain's men..." He exchanged a quick glance with Aedan. "This can't be good."

"Didn't we spend all morning asking about a man by this very description, and everyone said they hadn't seen him?" Alistair wasn't impressed or intimidated by the second man; for all the belligerence in his voice, the soldier kept himself turned, half-hidden behind his superior.

The commander narrowed his eyes, searching the inn patrons now beginning to press themselves into chairs and against walls. "It seems we were _lied_ to." Fighting not to shudder at the promise of retribution in that one word, Alistair took another step forward and tried to ignore the grasping memories of Ostagar. He had no intention of letting Loghain or his followers harm anyone else.

Before he could challenge Loghain's henchmen, a velvety, insistent voice cut in from their left, refusing to be ignored.

"Gentleman! Surely, there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt more poor souls seeking refuge." The woman was dressed as a lay-sister of the chantry, but something about her, in Alistair's experience, didn't fit. Her red hair, though traditionally short for the Chantry, was nicely styled; the woman's striking features held none of the wearied disapproval he'd found so common among women of the holy orders. And her voice...it held a warm confidence that indicated she was used to getting what she wanted simply by asking. Alistair realized it was the same quality Thera exhibited in such situations; he immediately felt a small measure of trust for the stranger. The commander, however, seemed to feel otherwise.

"They are more than that! Now stay out of our way, sister; if you protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them!"

_Traitors? _Since when were they the traitors? Alistair wondered if they could seriously believe what had happened at Ostagar made a traitor of anyone but Teyrn Loghain.

Watching Aedan carefully, Alistair saw his companion instantaneously weigh all the elements in play; they were outnumbered by a man or two, open to hostility from the locals, and short on time. He could practically hear the words of diplomacy sticking in Aedan's throat. "Let's talk about this before things get out of hand."

Their newest companion was the only one unwilling to extend an olive branch; for a woman who seemed to be all on her own, Alistair thought she was brave and possibly a little crazy as she practically laughed at their accusers.

"I doubt he would listen; he blindly follows his master's commands."

Rage practically exploded from the commander. "_I_ am not the blind one! I served at Ostagar, where the teyrn saved us from the Grey Wardens' treachery. I served him _gladly_." His fingers wound tight around the hilt of his sword, and Alistair braced as the commander barked orders to his subordinate. "Enough talk! Take the wardens into custody. Kill the sister, and _anyone else_ who gets in your way."

The younger soldier stepped up, seeming convinced that they would all surrender simply because they'd been ordered to do so. "Right, let's make this quick. Turn 'round, and give me your hands."

Aedan leapt forward, using the flat side of his blade like a staff to shove the man before him into an approaching cohort. Morrigan rolled past, and a moment later Alistair registered heat at his back. Lowering his sword arm long enough for an inferno to shoot past and catch his opponent almost full in the face, Alistair called back over his shoulder.. "A little warning, thanks!" Over the roar of a second bolt came her unsettling laughter.

To his surprise, Alistair turned to take on the next adversary only to find the Chantry sister holding off the man at Aedan's back. Not merely holding him off, Alistair corrected, but forcing the soldier to give ground with a lot of skill and disturbingly little effort. Hefting his sword, Alistair let the steel strike jarringly against the armor on the man's side, sending his body crumpling to the dirty floor. Just as he was certain they would have to kill Loghain's soldiers to a man, Aedan charged the lieutenant, who dropped his sword and threw up hands grudgingly.

"Alright! You've won...I surrender."

The sister strode up confidently, re-sheathing her dagger with practiced deftness. "Good! They've learned their lesson, and we can all stop fighting."

Aedan didn't seem to hear her. He was breathing heavily, and Alistair could see it wasn't just from the skirmish; it was the deep, measured breathing of a man trying to hold his rage in check. With two good strides, Aedan put himself in the commander's face, who was obliged to take a step back to meet Aedan's eyes. His fellow warden leaned in, and spoke in a dangerously low tone that Alistair had to struggle to discern.

"Take a message to Loghain." Aedan let the point of his sword strike the floorboard beneath his feet for emphasis; Alistair watched the commander flinch hard, turning his face away from Aedan's. "Yy-yes. Of course. Wwhat...what do you want to tell him?"

This time Aedan lifted his sword with both hands snaked around the grip, slamming it between them with enough force to make the blade sing as it planted in the thick oak plank. Leaning his tall frame over the weapon, he practically whispered in the trembling man's ear so that Alistair found himself working twice as hard to make out the words. "That the Grey Wardens _know_ what really happened."

"I'll tell him, right away. Now. Thank you." Backing up, the trembling man sidled sideways between Aedan and the lay-sister until the way was clear to flee for the door. The commander's departure was pathetic but not unjustified ; looking at Aedan, silent and stony, Alistair felt grateful they were on the same side.

The woman turned to face them. "I apologize for interfering, but I couldn't just sit by an not help."

Aedan rounded abruptly, fully facing her; from where Alistair stood it didn't seem the man quite remembered where he was. "And just _who_ are you, anyhow?"

His tone was uncharacteristically terse; to her credit, the woman seemed not to notice. "Oh, let me introduce myself! I am Leliana, one of the lay-sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering..." The brightness in her eyes faded a little as she looked around them, then shrugged lightly. "Or, I _was_."

Immediately Alistair felt skepeticism where Leliana was concerned; he didn't like anyone who used the words 'I' and 'Chantry' together, unless 'ran screaming from' was stuck between them. Morrigan huffed out a derisive snort; for his own part, Aedan looked mildly amused. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"I joined the Chantry to live a life of religious contemplation, but I am no priest. Not even an initiate...just someone who wanted a new direction, I suppose."

Alistair could make out all the muscles in Aedan's tall frame relax, seeming to compress the man a little; something about Leliana's words must have put him at ease. Maybe it was just that she was honest about being on a now-uncertain path; even the Chantry was abandoning Lothering to the approaching blight.

"This is Alistair, Morrigan, and I'm Aedan. A pleasure."

Alistair saw her loose a little composure for the first time. "Those men said you were a Grey Warden...you will battling the Darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do...and I know after what happened, you will need all the help you can get." Her arms crossed, smile a little too satisfied for Alistair's taste, and she nodded. "That is why I'm coming with you."

This time, Aedan didn't bother concealing his amusement. "You are? Why so eager to come with us?"

"The Maker told me to."

There was stunned silence, even from Morrigan. Leliana had said it as though mentioning a passable stew or a good nap. Not, Alistair decided suspiciously, as though the creator of all existence, the deity whom the Chantry stated empirically never spoke directly to anyone, had personally given her a directive to aid them.

Aedan straightened, looking very much like he'd take a step back from their new friend if it wouldn't call his bravery into question. "Can you..._elaborate_?"

Leliana was perceptive, Alistair had to give her that. She immediately picked up on the reaction her statement had received from the group. "I know that sounds completely insane, but it's true! I had a dream...a vision!" Her desperate, convincing tone was the end for Alistair. "More crazy? I thought we were all full up." He hoped Morrigan caught his meaning; Leliana looked a little hurt. "Look at people here. They are locked in their despair, and this darkness...this chaos will spread. The Maker doesn't want this. What you do..." To Alistair's discomfort She looked from Aedan to him and back. "What you are _meant_ to do, is the Maker's work. Let me help you." Aedan turned to him, ignoring Morrigan's presence, and spoke in what Alistair thought must have been the quiet possible tone his deep timbre could manage. "Alistair, she's one arch demon short of a blight."

She was a least a little crazy, Alistair was sure of it. Even so, when Leliana spoke, she talked of her conviction to the Maker, not the Chantry; at least her zeal was working in their favor. "She's more 'ooh pretty colors' than 'muahaha...I'm princess stabbity-stab, kill kill'."

Glancing back to Leliana, he saw a kindness, and an honest eagerness to aid their cause. "Her plea seems whole-hearted, and she may be a little..._strange_," He repressed the urge to choke on what seemed like a gross understatement, "but she has willingness and skill. I vote to let her come."

Sighing, Morrigan crossed arms and turned away; Aedan simply laughed. "Very well. Alistair is right; we'll not turn away help where it's offered."

"Perhaps your skull was crushed worse than mother thought." The biting retort was thrown over Morrigan's shoulder.

Leliana seemed to ignore the slight. "Thank you! I appreciate being given this chance to help you; I will _not _let you down."

Without a word, Morrigan stalked to the door, pushing past several nosy patrons.

Alistair watched her go, hoping she'd keep walking right back to Flemeth, before turning back to Leliana. "Right. We'll see just how long that gratitude lasts."

Two nights later, hey made camp that night on the shore of a small lake just east of Lake Calenhad. To make her feel more a part of the group, Alistair tricked Leliana into taking his cooking duties for the evening; to everyone's obvious relief, she was proved more talented than he at meal preparation. For the first time, Aedan and Morrigan weren't trying to sneak half their stew to the dog when they thought he wasn't looking.

Morrigan sat apart in her usual fashion, but Alistair noted Aedan had moved his seat a little closer to Leliana, as eager to hear her stories as she was to tell them. Why was she was alone in Ferelden, and why had she committed herself to the Chantry...was she truly crazy? Alistair recalled something he'd said to Aedan, just before the battle at Ostagar; that all the Wardens had sacrificed something to be there. Alistair guessed that was true of their little party now; sighing, he glanced at Morrigan seated in the shadows just beyond the firelight. Maybe it would bind them all together long enough to stop the Blight.

Alistair stood up from the gnarled stump making up his seat, and without much thought to direction, wandered through the fading dusk toward the sound of lapping water beyond the thin band of trees. Finding a wide, flat rock embedded in the wet earth along the lake shore, Alistair settled onto the hard surface, leaning back on his arms. High overhead, where the sky had already faded from dark blue to midnight, the first few stars were winking down at him; any other time, memories would have comforted him at the sight. For two days, though, a weight had been growing, both on his shoulders and in his heart. They were almost to Redcliffe; his past and all it's pain was waiting, just a little farther down the highway, with Isolde, Eamon, and the rest. And Thera...would she still be there? What would he say to her? He was still a warden, but things had changed...there were still things he wanted to tell her.

Two soft steps sounded in the leaf litter behind him. "Something is troubling you; I could see it when we left Lothering."

"Oh, you know...unseasonable cold, lots of walking. Right! And the Blight. Can't forget that part."

Leliana settled next to him, knees pulled up to her chest; Alistair could hear the smile in her voice. "You don't fool me with your teasing; I know there is something more to the weight you're carrying. It's alright if you don't want to tell me; even the best people have their secrets."

She seemed so frank, so understanding, as though she could be trusted with a confidence.

"It's not really a secret; it's just that, a long time ago I..." Exasperated, he threw up both hands. "Oh, who am I kidding? I can't possibly begin to explain all of this."

With a knowing smile, Leliana nodded slowly. "It's a woman that troubles you."

"It's just...wait. What? No! Why would you think that?" It was, and it wasn't, Alistair reasoned; Thera was one part of a much more complicated past.

"Alistair, I have a little experience observing people. There is something in the way you have been hurrying toward Redcliffe all day, hurrying all of us, and all the while...it's as though you're trying never to reach it. To me, that says woman trouble. But what does Leliana know?" She shrugged, narrow shoulders bobbing her short red locks out of place.

"And you gathered such wisdom observing people in the Chantry? The Lothering chantry must be way more exciting than the one in Redcliffe." Alistair could recall virtually nothing in Redcliffe that could have offered him experience with "trouble", male or female.

Her delicate hands waved dismissively at nothing. "Oh, I had a life before the Chantry, after all."

"In Orlais."

Leliana seemed overly-delighted that he'd taken notice, as though the heaviness of her accent hadn't immediately given away her homeland back in Lothering. "Yes! Oh, some times I long for home; a place with no dog smell and far less practical footwear."

There was a not in her words that Alistair recognized as more than wistfulness. "Why did you leave Orlais?"

"Why did _you_ leave Redcliffe?"

Turning away, he could do no more than sit silently; no amount of will would force the answer from his lips.

Leliana gave one brief, assured nod. "Mmmhmm...Just as I thought. We all have secrets, Alistair."

"What are you two doing down here?"

Aedan's silhouette materialized out of the woods a few feet away; Leliana shot to her feet. "My goodness, how can a man think in peace with so many interruptions!"

Alistair hesitated to point out that she'd been the first to interrupt him; Aedan showed less reserve. "Somehow I don't think Alistair planned this just to get us all away from Morrigan, though it's possible. We should head back."

When they were gone, Alistair folded arms across the tops of his knees, resting his forehead on the bridge they formed. They didn't know; his companions were completely unaware of his past, of his shame and neglect. By tomorrow, however, they would be in Redcliffe. If the arl didn't reveal his secrets, Isolde would do it on purpose, or Thera unintentionally...his friends would discover the past from which he'd tried so hard to distance himself. Wearily sighing, Alistair unfolded himself from the cold, damp ground and started back for camp. Aedan was his friend, his fellow Warden; Alistair wanted to be open with him, and to keep his companion's good opinion. Somehow, Alistair was all too aware he would have to come clean before they reached Redcliffe.


	25. A Broken Homecoming

The weary party crested the last hill along the imperial highway before Redcliffe just as the sun neared its highest point. Straggling farther behind than usual, Alistair took in the scenery; he found it hard to believe only a half-year had passed since he was last in Redcliffe. The light from overhead was uncomfortably warm for the first time in his recent memory, and a soft green had settled on the trees near the lake; Spring was slowly creeping in. Alistair reached a hand beneath his shirt breastplate almost absently, feeling for the small bundle he'd been carrying for two days. Spring, he realized, wouldn't be reaching Lothering any time soon; with the exception of a single rose he'd picked on the way from the village, the taint was likely already starting to ravage everything and everyone. Alistair couldn't quite say, even to himself, why he'd taken the flower; maybe it was a reminder of all he'd lost, and all still left worth fighting for.

Up ahead, the weathered spine of the watchtower jutted up from the burnished gold fields. Alistair felt the muscles along his spine squeeze for an instant; no one called out up ahead or came out to greet them. Aedan slowed his pace and gently help up a hand, as though sensing the same disquiet. Dog, who had been bounding enthusiastically without pause all morning, was fixed to Aedan's side; the whole of his body was still, tense, save the nearly imperceptible rotating of his small cupped ears. Leliana's fingers shot to her dagger; Morrigan tensed, rotating slowly in a half circle to scan their surroundings. "We are painfully exposed for miles; I cannot imagine your little knife will be of much use."

To her credit, Leliana only offered a gentle shrug. "Not every foe approaches in a manner so obviously detected."

Morrigan arched a feathery brow. "Well, perhaps your _maker_ will warn you if that is the case."

Turning halfway around, Leliana merely graced her detractor with a serene smile. Morigan's outrage at being unable to rankle Leliana was openly apparent; Alistair loved it. He was just readying a sarcastic dig when a quelling look from his fellow warden said it was time for the exchange to end.

Aedan waved them off the road, through the highway's ancient debris of brick and mortar and into a low gully. In a matter of minutes, which Alistair thought felt doubly long trudging through the low wild growth, they gained the watch tower. His training taught he should look for weapons, allies, intruders or debris; it was what they _didn't_ find as they surveyed the checkpoint that had Alistair feeling cold inside.

There were no soldiers, no bodies. Inside the one-room barracks and narrow kitchen space there were hardly any supplies to speak of. Save for some dirty cooking utensils in a bucket of murky water, it seemed the guards had simply packed up and left in the night.

Pointing toward the rear area of the tower, Aedan called out from the small enclave where the remains of cooking fire lay extinguished. "Alistair, you and Morrigan take a look around the outbuilding to the west; see if you can find any signs of what happened."

Picking his way through the low, narrow passage with Morrigan in tow, Alistair squinted in the daylight. He'd thought perhaps they could simply make their search in silence; her voice, light and provoking, dashed his hopes. "I have a wonder, Alistair...if you will indulge me."

"As if I have much choice. Go on, then."

"Of the two of you that remain, are you not the senior warden? And yet, here you are...deferring to a mere recruit. Is this the policy of your Gray Wardens?"

"What do you want to hear, that I prefer to follow? I do; being ignored has saved my life once or twice."

"My, so very defensive." She was openly laughing at him; Alistair thought in that moment if he didn't already hate Morrigan, the day wasn't far off. There was no trusting her in the beginning, and her lack of loyalty did nothing to sway his opinion.

"Crawl into a bush somewhere and die, thanks."

From behind, Aedan's commanding voice beckoned them back to the watch tower. Alistair was all to happy to leave Morrigan, turning on his heel without examining the dilapidated shack any further.

Aedan was studying the small yard beside the tower entrance, pointing to where indentations in the scrubby grass bathed by the afternoon sun betrayed places where gear and supplies had stood. Alistair could practically hear his friend's thoughts before the words were spoken. "Something isn't right here; we should speak with Arl Eamon immediately. Either his men deserted, or they were recalled."

Nodding slowly, Aedan turned around, and Alistair could see the haunted expression on his face. Moving close, so the women couldn't hear, he tried to offer Aedan some reassurance. Alistair thought the scene must have reminded Aedan of the stillness outside castle Cousland as he'd fled with Duncan, just as Alistair found himself reminded of the stillness at Flemmeth's hut after Ostagar. "I know what you're thinking, but I'm sure there's a harmless explanation...nothing like, well..."

"Thank you."

He wanted to apologize for the awkwardness of his reassurance, but before Alistair could find the words, it seemed as though the sun blinked in and out behind him; once, twice, and again. Aedan noticed it too, eyes squinting, shooting to the sky overhead. "What... is that?"

Following Aedan's stare, Alistair bridged one hand above his eyes and struggled to make out the shapes high overhead; Morrigan had their answer. "Rock crows."

His gut twisted as her lips formed the words, and Alistair watched the birds swirl and flap slowly in a lazy, terrifying circle. "They're waiting for something to die."

Morrigan looked at the deserted grounds around them. "Or some _one_, perhaps."

Reflexively Aedan shrugged his sword arm. "Let's get this over with."

Alistair barely had time to acknowledge the words before Aedan was loping off, north across the patchy ground, into the tall grass. Jogging beside him, Alistair saw Leliana cock her head. "That sound...what is it?"

Straining to hear over the pounding of his heart and feet, Alistair made out a discordant vibration on the air, first low and indistinct. To his disgust, Alistair found he was able to identify it by sight first; in the wide gully up ahead, a cloud of what he estimated were dozens of fat black flies buzzed frantically above something mangled in the tall grass. Just ahead, Aedan gagged a little, turning his face into a crooked arm; within seconds Alistair caught the wet, sweet putrid stench of newly decaying flesh hanging in the mid-day heat. Dog, some paces behind them, refused to come any closer; he alternated whines and growls, pacing anxiously to either side of Morrigan and Leliana without venturing nearer.

Striding forward, Alistair tried pulling long breaths in through his mouth, avoiding the odor. Rocking up on the balls of his feet, he peered over Aedan's shoulder, down into the grass; there wasn't much left to see. "Well, what ever has happened here, he's really gone to pieces over it."

Aedan turned his head slowly to face Alistair, cocking one brow at the jest; Alistair could only shrug. "C'mon, tell me you weren't already thinking the same thing." Kneeling down, Alistair studied the corpse more carefully. The majority of the remains were comprised of studded leather armor filled with protruding bones, covered in red fatty gobs crusting brown in the heat. Both arms and one leg from the knee down were missing entirely, gnaw marks betraying opportunistic predators. Leaning in, Aedan used the toe of his boot to roll the torso over, then swore through the exodus of more flies. Alistair too stared in disbelief, at last using his fingers to smooth the curling ends of the gray wool badge pinned to the chest piece. "By the Maker...it's one of Howe's men!" Alistair was stunned by the discovery.

Eyes flying up to Aedan's face, Alistair found him staring off toward the lake, and knew their thoughts traveled in the same direction. Aedan's solid frame belied a tension as he spoke. "We need to reach Redcliffe, immediately." As Alistair looked on, Aedan's face twisted almost into a sneer, and he spit hard onto the corpse before turning away. It was a small glimpse of his friend's anguish at the loss of his family, and Alistair felt all the more admiration that Aedan regularly put aside personal vengeance for the greater good of Ferelden.

Coming to his feet with a bounce, Alistair began to hurry after his fellow warden; it was Leliana's urgent call that stopped him.

"Wait! Some thing's not right. There is only one soldier here; hardly anything to suggest this place is in danger. And the crows...look." One of her slender fingers pointed overhead like an arrow. "Why haven't they landed to eat?" Turning, she waved her hand toward the north-west. "The grass over there is crushed; I think we should take a look."

To Alistair's surprise, Morrigan was uncharacteristically supportive. "I agree with her. No use will come of charging up to the village without knowing what it is we rush to find. It would be most wise to see what else may be discovered here."

Running toward them for the first time, Dog pranced in two or three anxious circles before Aedan, then sat down beside Leliana.

Aedan shook his head. "Looks like everyone has something to say about the situation. Alistair?"

"Leliana has a good point; crows don't typically pass up a meal unless they sense danger or difficulty. It can't hurt to see if we're missing something."

The glance Aedan cast over his shoulder was almost desperate; then, Alistair caught his sigh. "Alright. But let's be quick; I won't be completely at ease till we're in the village."

As they trudged up the small incline where Leliana had indicated, Alistair fought against the waves of panic in his chest. This was his home, all he had left after the loss of Duncan and his brother. It had taken every ounce of will, resisting the urge to turn and run for Redcliffe at breakneck speed upon the discovery of Howe's man. He realized tt couldn't have been any easier for Aedan, aware that the traitor's soldiers were so near.

Taking a final stride to the top of the slope, Alistair followed with his eyes a ragged path weaving down the other side, through the bright green waves of grass. Immediately his gaze was drawn to a body farther off; beside him, Aedan's arms came up, indicating a rough path with his outstretched finger. "Someone or something dragged the other corpse from here." They moved together with measured steps down the low hill, while Leliana and Morrigan waded through islands of long weeds in the wide, scrub-covered gully.

Not bothering to hide his disgusted grimace, Alistair crouched over the second body across from Aedan. "Less of this one left, if that's possible. And after only a day or two; I guess we have an idea how long the watchtower has been unoccupied."

Aedan responded with a slow, distracted nod; Alistair could almost see his mind turning things over, trying to make sense of what they were looking at. "The watch-post was abandoned; still, I would say Howe's soldiers were taken down by Redcliffe men...but for _this_." Aedan raised up on his haunches a little, using an index finger to lift the mangled chin of an eyeless skull. Using the same finger, he traced a line in the air above spongy flesh; finally, Alistair grasped his companion's meaning. Despite the ravages of heat and scavengers, the body showed no injuries from axe or sword. Only the soft, putrid flesh protected in the fold of the dead man's neck told the tale, with a crusted red-black line drawn almost from ear to ear.

Still crouched, Alistair rested back a little on his haunches. "Either Howe's soldiers are incredibly stupid, or they were surprised from behind. Maybe both; I like that better."

Before Aedan could reply, Leliana's shouts brought them to their feet.

"This one is still alive!"

Bolting forward, Alistair ran toward the women with Aedan at his shoulder, panting as he bit words through clenched teeth. "I'll be _damned_ if I'm running for help to save an Amaranthine traitor!" When they'd cleared nearly half the distance, Alistair spied the booted foot protruding from the grass; it was not the boot of a soldier.

He bounded a few more strides, till he could see just beyond the clump of grass concealing the body; Alistair stopped so abruptly that Aedan was obliged to rest a hand on his back or trample him to the ground.

An ocean of matted red waves spilled out from the swaying stalks; fingers of fear, long and cold gripped at the guts in his belly with a slow twist. "No; Maker; no!"

His feet were moving under him suddenly, Alistair closing the space without knowing just how he reached the prone form in the weeds. Falling to his knees, Alistair curled fingers desperately into the clothing, grabbing a handful of fabric anywhere his hands could find slack. Tugging sharply, he turned the body as Leliana cradled its head. The breeze chilled; it seemed the sun was lost behind a cloud, and Alistair felt his blood lose all warmth. He could deny it was her, dismiss the appearance as coincidence; he could even ignore the sickening wave in his stomach until he saw Thera's face. There was blood, so much blood; brown streaks covered her face, each corner of her mouth lined with dried rivulets.

The front of her dress put him in mind of a butcher's apron; dark coppery blotches of varying saturation overlapped from the neckline to the hem of her skirt. Seeing her right side, Alistair winced, turning away a moment. The gray fabric bore a small hole, the size of an acorn, around which the fiber for some inches was nearly black. The blackness had a wet, sticky appearance, like an awful sort of tree sap. It was her blood, Alistair grasped with horror. Kept damp by her body and the ground, spoiled by the heat of the sun, it was no wonder carrion birds lingered at the smell, biding their time. Unconsciously, he groaned.

A bluish hue colored the skin around Thera's mouth and eyes; it was the color of death. Scooping her up, Alistair crushed Thera's lifeless body to his chest and rocked gently; it was more for his own benefit than anything. He'd lost so much already...Duncan, Cailen, his fellow wardens. Thera had been his reason to keep fighting, to do whatever was necessary to stop the Blight. The Chantry taught that the Maker had abandoned his creations, yet Leliana claimed to have heard his command. Fervently Alistair sent out a silent prayer in hopes she was right. _Please_, he begged wildly; _please don't take Thera from me_.

Leliana held a slender hand an almost imperceptible distance from Thera's face a moment, then met Aedan's concerned gaze. "She lives, for now; though, I am not certain she will see dusk. We need magic, strong healing magic."

"Morrigan, you have a little skill in that regard. Can you keep the girl alive until help can be brought?"

The lazy manner in which she shifted her posture at Aedan's query left Alistair wanting to scream.

"I am certain I have the _ability_; willingness, on the other hand..." Her eyes settled on him, and Alistair felt a rare surge of confrontational fury. "Perhaps just this once you could try being something other than a complete and utter _bitch_."

In a flash, Aedan's tall frame was between them, hands up, blocking Alistair's sight of Morrigan. "If Redcliffe is in danger, if Loghain has some designs here, we lose one of our best hopes for overcoming this blight. If this girl can tell us something and we allow her to perish, it's an enormous step back in our efforts."

After an agonizing moment, Alistair heard the weary, annoyed sigh. "Oh, very well. But I do this only because I too am curious about what has transpired here. Make no mistake about this being a favor." If her eyes could have found him through Aedan's body, Alistair knew he would have felt Morrigan's stare as she pronounced the word _favor_. Now, for certain, he hated her.

"Alistair and I will head for Redcliffe, and see if it's safe enough to get help."

Leliana slipped her arms beneath Thera's head and back, and as Alistair hesitantly relinquished his hold Aedan turned to extend an arm, helping him up. Looking back a moment at Thera, Alistair had to acknowledged what he'd been obliged to deny for so many years; he loved her. If she lived, if they both survived the Blight...

"Alistair, I can see this is important to you. I know the last thing you want to do is leave this girl here, but I need you. You know the village, and you're my fellow Gray Warden. I hate to ask you..."

He could say no, tell Aedan to take Dog or Leliana; the words were on his lips. After all, how could he leave Thera so soon after finding her again, when she hovered so perilously near the Fade. Then, he grasped what his friend had said, that he needed Alistair. They may not be brothers by blood, but they were brothers in arms; against virtually every ounce of his will, Alistair stepped away from her. "I will go to Redcliffe with you."

He could save her, Alistair reasoned, by leaving her behind. Just for now.

"We have a lot of ground to cover; let's go." Aedan's voice cut off his thoughts, but not his feelings; Alistair found they were what moved his feet toward Redcliffe when all he could think of was running back and holding Thera in his arms.


	26. Redcliffe

**Redcliffe**

Taking the last few strides up the long, rocky hill to a windmill before the village, Alistair took several steps off the road and gathered his wits. Better just to be out with the truth now, than fumble for the right time; he took a steadying breath. "Look, can we talk? I need to tell you something, something I probably should have mentioned before now."

Beside him now, Aedan crossed arms, sighing. "Let me guess: you're an idiot."

"Yes, that's right! I stopped you in the middle of a crisis to tell you I'm an idiot. Thank the Maker you know already!" Alistair rubbed his forehead dramatically. "Now I can stop worrying I'll be found out."

"Maybe what I'm trying to say is that you must assume _I'm_ an idiot if you think I believe that was just some girl from Redcliffe village."

The words struck him like a physical blow; Alistair struggled to push images of Thera's wounds from the darkness behind his closed eyes.

"No, she's not. But then, I'm not just some boy from Redcliffe village either."

It was the moment of truth. Alistair turned his back on Aedan a little and looked out toward the castle. "Remember when I said Arl Eamon raised me at Redcliffe castle, and that my mother was a serving girl there?"

Aedan was about to speak; Alistair realized it too late, when his emotions had already got the upper hand. The wave carried him forward without pause. "I'm a bastard! My mother died when I was born and Arl Eamon took me in until I was sent to the Chantry. And the reason that he took me in...was..." For a moment he could only shrug. "Well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailen my half-brother, I suppose."

Alistair thought his friend might have appeared less dumbstruck if he'd announced he was the Maker. "So, you're not just a bastard, but a royal bastard."

He was relieved at the way Aedan took the news, immediately feeling more at ease. "Yes, I suppose I am, at that." Alistair turned himself completely around, better able to look Aedan in the eyes. "It's certainly not something I'm proud of, and it's not as though it earned me special treatment." Alistair recalled Lerin and Rem, and all the rest. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I know I should have told you, but hiding my parentage, well...it's a habit, really. A sort of survival instinct. Everyone who knew either resented me for it, or coddled me...even Duncan."

Aedan's nod was thoughtful. "Keeping you from the fighting...I think I understand."

"He did all he could to keep me out of the fighting."

One weight had been lifted; Alistair physically sensed the lightening of his burden. " It's not as though I had it easy. After the Arl remarried, things changed. His bride from Orlais resented me, and the implications of the Arl personally seeing to my upbringing. Eventually he gave in, to placate her, and at age ten I was packed off to the Chantry. I was so furious at being sent away, I ripped off my mother's necklace and hurled it at a bookcase, shattering the amulet into pieces. Such a stupid, stupid thing to do. But in those days I didn't care; I hated it there."

Straightening, Alistair recalled the urgency of their task and scanned the hills behind Aedan. "Anyway, I had one bright spot during all that darkness, one thing that kept me going each day."

Aedan cast him the barest hint of a knowing smile. "Something rare and wonderful."

"Precisely, which is the same reason we're marching into Redcliffe and possibly a trap."

Glancing around them, Aedan shrugged. "The town seems safe enough, or at least not openly dangerous_; _let's move on."

"Sounds good, and I'll just pretend you still think I'm some nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

One of Aedan's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. "As you command..._my prince_."

Turning on his heel, Alistair headed down the slope towards the gate. "Lovely. I'm going to regret this...I just know it." Aedan passed him up, marching at a perfect military cadence.

As they approached the road to the village, Alistair could see two things that made him uneasy. The militia guard at the gate was alone, and he was not a Redcliffe soldier. The nervous shifting from side to side as he caught sight of the two Wardens, and the manner in which he looked around anxiously for obviously non-existent aid put Alistair ill at ease.

"Stop! No one may enter the village, by order of Bann Teagan."

For a moment, Alistair wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "Bann Tegan? The Bann is here, in Redcliffe?"

"He has come to discover what is amiss at the castle, with the arl."

"Arl Eamon?" Aedan, for his part, seemed equally baffled.

"Have you not heard? If you truly have business in Redcliffe...Alistair, is that you?"

The man appeared so wearied, shadows of fear and exhaustion lingering around his eyes, that Alistair at first had trouble recognizing him.

"Yes, Tomas. This is my companion, Aedan of House Cousland."

Aedan held up a hand. "We are acting Gray Wardens, traveling back from Ostagar; we were hoping to seek Arl Eamon's counsel."

"Then I am truly sorry; the arl has been sick for a month."

"Sounds quite desperate." Even as he spoke, Aedan's eyes darted about, seeming to assess their surroundings with a tactical eye.

Tomas hung his head, tired eyes seeming to search the gravel fruitlessly. "Would that were the worst of our troubles; it was fortunate Bann Tegan arrived when he did.""

Alistair recalled Howe's two dead men out on the plains. "What do you mean?"

The defeated slump of Tomas' shoulders was painfully familiar; Alistair had seen it in the people virtually every place they'd stopped on the journey to Redcliffe. "You should speak with the bann before I say more."

It was hard to resist the urge to shake the man, to demand he give an answer that wasn't frustratingly cryptic. Alistair chastised himself that Tomas was only following the orders he'd been given by the militia; it was Teagan's place to decide what any visitor, even a Grey Warden, was permitted to know. Aedan was obviously ready to move on and get some answers. "Will we find him at the castle?"

"No, he will most likely be near the chantry. It's where..." Tomas raised his hands in a sort of helpless gesture. "Ask for him there."

When they were some paces away, Aedan cocked his head a little, voice low enough that Alistair was obliged to walk a little closer. "You know Redcliffe, and the people. What do you think we're walking into?"

Alistair realized he didn't know what to think. His mind, already so clouded with fear for Thera, had trouble making out any Tomas' half-explanations. "With the Blight, Arl Eamon's plate was already quite full. If he's sick, I suppose he would need help from someone he could trust. Teagan would be just the man, being the arl's brother."

"Tomas mentioned the bann had already been summoned to Redcliffe; that must have been a week ago. Seems unlikely Howe is the other crisis facing the village just now."

A fact that was almost more troubling, Alistair mused. "Doesn't explain his two stumpy men out there on the field." Aedan raised one brow, considering the puzzle but saying nothing more.

The first few buildings came in to sight below them. Squinting through the gritty dust their boots kicked up from the rickety boardwalk, Alistair second guessed their assessment of Howe's interference.

"I assume this isn't the usual state of the village." Aedan paused beside him, scanning the buildings below.

"Whatever gave you that thought?" Alistair fought to be It was hard to believe his heart could hurt more, but looking down at Redcliffe, at his home, the ache grew.

Any house or establishment well off enough to afford windows now sported empty holes. Doors were ripped from hinges and smashed asunder, their debris piled with other bits of carts and walls along the streets. As they passed along the first street at the base of the hill, Alistair truly began to absorb the horror of their surroundings. Smears of rust painted front steps, walls, even the dirt of the street where it was punctuated with suspicious drag marks.  
At the end of the next street, where it widened before the main square, bodies were piled to one side. At least, he assumed they were bodies; most everything in the heap was mutilated beyond immediate recognition.

Aedan's strides lengthened, Alistair immediately matching the cadence. "We need to find Teagan, quickly."

Alistair barely managed a nod. "I think we're going to be of more use to him than he is to us."

As Tomas guessed, Teagan was outside the chantry, giving instructions to a small group of knights. Alistair felt badly at how much the sight of two wardens affected him; he stopped speaking mid-sentence and simply stared at their approach. Then, he started striding toward them. "Grey Wardens...thank the Maker. You could not have arrived at a more opportune time."

"Aedan, of House Cousland. And my fellow warden..."

Teagan gave his head a quick shake. "Alistair...is that you?"

"Yes, Bann Teagan. It's good to see you."

The bann's weary eyes brightened a little. "Everyone thought you perished at Ostagar! This is some good news, at least."

Aedan pointed around them at the seemingly abandoned town. "Where is everyone?"

"Some nights ago abominations spilled forth from the castle and overtook the village. They vanished with the sunrise, only to return each subsequent night. Many are dead, and many more are terrified of joining them. Their fears, I confess, are not unfounded. I fear tonight will be the worst attack yet."

Instinctively, Aedan's hand came to rest on the grip of his sword. "What is the source of the abominations?"

Teagan held hands aloft. "Would that I could say. They simply swarmed down from the castle several nights past. I have not attempted to enter, and no one answers my calls. All I know, you do too."

"Have you raised an alarm with any other arlings?"

Teagan raked at the locks matted to his cheek with sweat and blood from fighting night after night. "We sent word of our plight, but no help has yet arrived."

Exchanging glances with Aedan, Alistair cleared his throat a few times. "I'm sorry to say I don't think your message made it through. We found Thera, out in the fields...two of Howe's soldiers were slain out there, as well."

Alistair cringed as Teagan's fist made a meaty thud against the stone of the chantry wall. "It will not stand! He uses his reputation as a hero to deceive, but I will expose Loghain for the murder of my nephew, my cousin, and for his betrayal. And I will expose his underlings, like that wretch Rendon Howe. The Bannorn will not recognize that traitor, not ever!"

Aedan came forward a step, resting his hand on Teagan's shoulder. "There will be time for Loghain soon enough. And for Howe, make no mistake. Your cousin needs aid immediately; she was alive, at least when we left her with our companions."

"I'll send Patridge at once, though I've not many men to spare. Most all our knights are seeking aid for my brother, fool's errand though it may be." Raising a hand, Teagan made a sharp gesture to the knight at his left, who immediately loped off toward the opposite side of the chantry.

Giving voice to his fears, Alistair looked up at the castle. "Is the arl as sick as everyone says? Is he truly dying?"

Teagan wearily sighed. "I cannot say. There is no answer from the castle and thus far I have not been able to gain entry. When Thera summoned me to Redcliffe, he was not improving, but there was no decline. I am prepared that we may retake the castle from this evil only to find he has died."

He stared helplessly down at his hands; Alistair's heart ached at Teagan's open anguish. "If only I had been with him, if I'd been there to aid him on the battlefield..."

Alistair rested a hand on Teagan's shoulder. "You couldn't have stopped it; whatever Loghain did, whether cowardice or malice, it was written before Cailan took the field. You would be lost now, too. And so would Redcliffe."

His arms embraced Alistair in a gruff sort of comforting hug. "We have lost much Alistair. My nephew would have grown to be a great king, and Duncan was a true friend to the Theirin line."

Duncan's name came at Alistair like a hammer-blow. "They were my brothers; the wardens and Cailan, I suppose. Aedan has lost his family, too. I think we all want to see Loghain answer for what he's done."

Teagan shook his head slowly. "That may be more difficult than ever; Loghain returned to the capital with his army intact. He's overthrown the king, and now he's cementing his position against the arls...it has ignited civil war."

Straightening, Aedan crossed arms over his chest. "Then we have to get to Eamon and find a cure; if Ferelden is going to survive the Blight or a civil war, it will be with his aid. And that means Alistair and I are offering whatever help you require to stop these attacks."

"We should go and speak with Ser Perth; he's in charge of maintaining the upper defenses, so it would be wise to coordinate our efforts. Gather any supplies you might need; there is a little food to be had inside the chantry. We can rendezvous on the bridge by the windmill shortly."

Teagan rejoined his men, Aedan leading them away, through litter and debris across the square. "The women should arrive shortly; let's check the general store and see if there's anything useful, or edible for that matter, left for sale. " Resting a hand on the burnished bronze ring, Aedan paused before pulling open the door to the shop. "I'm sorry, Alistair...for everyone you've lost, for Duncan, and for your friend Thera. Home is where you should be able..." Aedan's jaw worked for a moment, then he shrugged.

Alistair realized he felt a little ashamed of himself. "Here I am, doing all this whining and complaining, and you haven't exactly had an easy time of it yourself since . You've had none of the good experiences of being a Grey Warden, the thanks and recognition. So, thank you. If not for you, well..." He wasn't certain at all how to finish the sentiment. Fortunately, Aedan smiled slightly in acknowledgement.

"Alistair, I think we understand each other perfectly."

**The Barricade**

Seated on the rocky ground near the windmill, Alistair watched the light fading over Redcliffe into the western sky. Morrigan and Leliana were just making their way up the path toward the bridge, Dog bounding around them in wide circles after a long day of guard duty. A little jealous, Alistair mused that at least one member of their party seemed undisturbed by what was happening around them. Turning to Aedan, who was seated against a nearby barrel with eyes closed, Alistair pointed down the hill.

Aedan's eyes came halfway open. "No, Alistair. We cannot use the oil to burn Morrigan."

"Very funny. And I'll give you a little more time to reconsider. What I'm curious to know is, why your mabari doesn't have a name."

Straightening, Aedan crossed his arms almost defensively. "My mabari most certainly _does_ have a name."

"_Dog_? I hesitate to wonder how you came by such a clever title."

Aedan raised both hands in exasperation. "What's wrong with Dog? It's short, efficient..."

The animal came bounding up the path, wagging furiously. "And he likes it... don't you, you smelly troublemaker?"

Dog yipped happily, flopped onto his back and wriggled his massive body from side to side as Aedan dug fingers into the hair of his haunches. "Alistair doesn't like your name."

Alistair involuntarily tensed as Dog flipped right-side over, giving off a small warning bark. "And we think that's stupid, don't we?" Aedan shot him a smirk.

Hunching over, nose to the ground, Dog growled menacingly. Laughing, Alistair turned his gaze back toward the bridge. "Alright, you've got me. I apologize." Bounding over, Dog fell beside him, head resting in the dip of Alistair's crossed legs.

Leliana and Morrigan at last reached the blockade, moving wearily, both showing the strain of the day. Crouching to pet Dog, Leliana met his eyes earnestly. "Your friend is at the chantry now; Mother Hannah is seeing to her care."

Morrigan stood apart, wrapped in her own arms defiantly as she spoke. "I must confess a grudging respect for the girl. Few hardened men could sustain such injuries and continue to fight for survival. That is to say nothing of how she overcame her attackers."

Aedan was staring up at her so dumbfounded that Alistair struggled not to laugh as his companion spoke. "Morrigan...was that a...compliment?"

Her lithe shoulders shrugged dismissively. "Quite the opposite; I do not engage in mindless flattery. That was a legitimate acknowledgment of another woman's strength. I am not surprised at your mistake."

Settling beside Aedan, Leliana looked around at the militia finishing preparations for the coming night. "What can we do to help?"

Aedan took up a cloth sack from his left side, tossing it to her. "Have something to eat, sleep maybe, and wait for nightfall." Reaching behind him, Aedan patted the rough-hewn barrel at his back. "And pray to the Maker that this oil works as well as we all hope."

Leliana smiled in her typical peaceful fashion despite the rings beneath her eyes, and began to eat eagerly, as though their victory were a foregone conclusion. Morrigan scoffed, stretching out on her cloak, but Alistair found Leliana's optimism gave him hope. Rotating his body to better see the village below, he fixed eyes on the chantry and said his own prayer to the Maker.


End file.
